


You're A Hard Soul To Save

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Angst, Blood, Enemies to Lovers, Fairy Enchantments, Hard M/Soft E, M/M, Pining, Redemption, Soft!Lascelles, Unhappy ending but hopeful?, Violence, prepare yourself for angst, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27693158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Lascelles drew slowly closer, and then, to Childermass’ surprise, a spark of recognition ignited in the man’s dark, haunted eyes. “You!” he exclaimed. “You! You filthy thief! You horrible liar!” His eyes grew wide and his pace quickened. “You! The magician’s assistant! You scoundrel! You cur!” His face changed rapidly from that of a lax idiot to a mask of pure rage. His steps grew more sure and swift as he drew closer across the clearing, and Childermass decided that Lascelles was still very much alive inside his enchantment and that he’d best cast a spell or two in self defense. And quickly, before the man remembered to use the pistol he was waving about in anger as he advanced.
Relationships: John Childermass/Henry Lascelles, Perhaps A Smidge Of Childermass/Segundus? But Just A Smidge
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to try my hand at a Lascelles' Plucked Eye and Heart fic. I wanted to toy with what would happen if he were truly redeemed for being such a horrible person, and how might Childermass react to that new version of Lascelles. 
> 
> I hope this works. It was fun to write. I love my trashy boys. 
> 
> This doesn't end happily, but, it does end hopefully. Fingers crossed that that's enough of a heads up. I hate explicit tags for plot twists. That's why they're called "twists". 
> 
> Thank you emilycare for your wonderful, supportive ideas and suggestions. You're quite literally the best <3

_You're a hard soul to save  
With an ocean in the way  
But I'll get around it  
I'll get around it_ \- Florence + The Machine

“But Mr. Childermass! You must not go! It is far too dangerous. That gentleman is not right in his mind. He is full of violent impulses. If he still lives, I fear he shall try to do you harm. And if he does not, I fear you shall be enchanted.” Davey stood by Brewer, holding the large, unhandsome stallion’s reins as if he had no intention of handing them over to Childermass. His face, usually pleasant and biddable, was twisted with worry. 

Childermass smiled grimly. He was grateful for Davey (and Lucas’) concern for his safety, but once he resolved himself to do a thing, he needed to see it through. He had given the matter much thought, and had come up with several compelling reasons to go in search of Henry Lascelles. 

Firstly, there was the fact that Lascelles needed to be brought to justice. If he were lost on some Faerie road unable to be found, or if some terrible fate had befallen him and he had died, then his punishment had been meted out already. But, if he had simply escaped to some obscure town in the countryside, if he still lived, he would be up to no good. Childermass knew this based on copious prior experiences with the unscrupulous gentlemen. 

Drawlight’s body, only recognizable by some details of the clothes he wore, had been found near a remote crossroads some miles from London. The man’s skull, shot through with a single bullet had been barely identifiable, an ivory crescent of bone, seen through the thick underbrush that surrounded his body. He had been pierced through with saplings and brambles. And though he could not have been dead for longer than a few months, not nearly enough time for such growth to occur, it appeared as if he had been mostly consumed by a small forest. Still, the bones of his hands (one still wearing a gold ring he favored and had miraculously refrained from selling off), and of his feet and skull, along with a corner of his coat, had not yet been swallowed up by the tangled profusion of green. 

Childermass had no doubt as to who had murdered him. The authorities had also put the pieces together. Several witnesses had seen Lascelles riding off in that direction the day of Drawlight’s disappearance, and one of his former servants had identified the bullet they found in the earth beneath Drawlight’s skull as belonging to one of Lascelles’ pistols (as he had had the responsibility of cleaning the things). 

Lascelles had much to answer for. He had apparently also spent some time in the embezzlement of monies from some naive widows and wealthy, neglected merchant’s wives over the years, and had had many shady dealings all over London, rivalled only by his once friend-turned-victim Christopher Drawlight. He deserved to be tried before a proper court, for his crimes to be answered for.

The thing that Childermass did not mention aloud is that he himself wished to confront Lascelles. He had long hated the man, and saw him as the architect of Norrell’s unhappiness, as well as the obvious cause of the rift between Childermass and his master. Were it not for Henry Lascelles, much of the unfortunate events that lead to Norrell disappearing into the darkness might never have occurred. Childermass needed to make Lascelles face up to what he’d done. And since no one else had volunteered to find the man, seeming content to leave him to whatever fate had befallen him, Childermass was more than willing to do the job. 

Whatsmore, he had more than an inkling about where the man had gone. He well remembered Lascelles’ sneering, derogatory words when Childermass had reported his discovery of The Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart. How Lascelles had called Childermass a coward for refusing to fight the poor soul who guarded its grounds. He knew, from Davey and Lucas’ accounts, that Lascelles had walked away over the Faerie bridge that had appeared upon Norrell’s lands after he and the servants had left Hurtfew Abbey. And so he knew that it was very likely Lascelles’ intention to return to the castle and challenge its guardian to a duel. 

Whether or not the man reached his destination was another matter entirely. Fairy roads were unpredictable and capricious things. Lascelles could have perished at the tip of a Faerie arrow, or wandered off the road somewhere in Scotland for all that he could have arrived at the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart. But Childermass wanted to be certain. He wanted to find Lascelles’ body, or the man himself. And if he could not find the man, either living or dead, he would at least satisfy himself that he had tried his best. 

Perhaps then, his dreams of Lascelles’ sneering mouth and the sharp pain of the edge of his knife, mixing strangely with the sweet scent of the orange rind upon his blade, would leave him be. Perhaps then Childermass could sleep the night through, without nightmares of Norrell’s cold face dismissing him, or Lascelles’ knife cutting at him, or Lady Pole’s flinty eyes, glaring at him. He sought resolution and peace when he sought Henry Lascelles. 

“Have no fear for my safety,” Childermass reassured Davey with a hand to his shoulder. “I am certain that I can protect myself from the likes of Henry Lascelles. He is naught but a wild cat. All hissing and claws with no real strength to wound.” He was lying of course, for Lascelles was a dangerous man when all was said and done, but he did not want Lucas and Davey (whom he was very fond of) to worry. 

He gently wrested Brewer’s reins from Davey’s hands and with a nod to both servants, he led his horse out of the stables and into the courtyard of Starecross Hall. 

A good portion of Norrell’s servants had settled here after Norrell had disappeared with Strange into the darkness that had swallowed Hurtfew Abbey. John Segundus, the headmaster of the new Starecross School for Magicians, was a kind and doting master, and so was his friend and associate, Mr. Honeyfoot. Childermass also kept finding his way back to Starecross Hall during his travels, and to his surprise, had begun to think of the large, rambling building as home. Vinculus, his constant companion these past few months, was sitting safe and warm in Starecross’ kitchen this very minute, likely demanding more than his fair share of breakfast. And so Childermass could embark on his journey without worrying about where the vagabond man would wander off to.

He mounted Brewer, and with one last look at the now familiar bulk of Starecross Hall in the early morning mist, he rode out and over the packhorse bridge and turned south, toward Doncaster.

The entrance to the Faerie road he sought was a day’s journey south, and by the time he arrived, he was tired and a little travel sore. It would be folly to embark upon the road at sunset, and so he built a small fire and camped out for the night a few hundred meters from the hedge that marked the entrance. 

Now that he was here, settled by the fire, he took some time to reorganize his thoughts and go over the spells and protections he’d brought with him. He took out a small bundle of grubby, oft folded papers from the pocket of his coat and unfolded them, reading over his own blocky handwriting by the flickering light of the fire. He had some spells on protection, from bullets and knife wounds, that Strange had developed and copied down in letters to John Segundus during his time in the war. Segundus had been kind enough to let Childermass copy them down in turn. These would serve to protect him should Lascelles attack him in that fashion. 

He had thought long and hard on what to do if he found the man enchanted, and had decided on the use of the tried and true spell of Pale’s Restoration and Rectification. And to this end, he had a hastily constructed cross, made of two of cook’s tarnished forks. 

The young man who he’d discovered guarding the castle previously had been enthralled to a fairy mistress, and perhaps Restoration would have returned him to his right mind. Childermass regretted not rescuing the young soldier, but there had been no time, and he’d been unsure of what good it would have done. The man had seemed a hollow shell of a person. A dead man who had simply forgotten to expire. If Henry Lascelles turned out to be in a similar state… a walking corpse who could no longer remember his name or his purpose, perhaps Childermass would find the strength to end his misery with a bullet. If Lascelles did not try to shoot Childermass’ head off first that is, and this is where Strange’s spells of protection would come in very handy indeed!

In addition to Restoration and Rectification and Strange’s protection spells, he planned on trying a spell of forgetfulness he’d discovered buried in an old book of Norrell’s at Hurtfew, perhaps a decade before. Norrell had used a spell of forgetfulness upon the minds of Mr. Segundus and Mr. Honeyfoot when they had come calling, inquiring about Norrell’s practice of magic, but this spell had been different. One Childermass had never seen before, and he’d found it in a dark corner of Norell’s vast library. He doubted that Norrell had forgotten about it, as the man had a razor sharp intuition for where every single book he owned was kept, but Childermass had never heard this particular spell mentioned or heard it used in any magical undertaking. 

Childermass excelled at memorization, and so he’d committed the spell to memory, because it had fascinated him. It was written on old, yellowed paper in a smallish volume with a battered and threadbare binding. The name of the spell was written in a language he did not understand, and might have been one of the old fairy dialects. Another reason for Norrell never mentioning it perhaps? But the words of the spell had been translated to English, and Childermass could understand them well enough. 

Spells dealing with the contents of a man’s mind, or with matters of the heart were always more carefully guarded than those that say, allowed a magician to change the shape of a hillside, or move a copse of trees from one place to another. And so perhaps Norrell had either never dared to use it, or had not wished Childermass to be tempted to use it himself. Regardless, Lascelles was the perfect candidate to try it out on. Childermass did not wish to chance Norrell’s weaker, more subtle spells of forgetfulness on a dangerous murderer like Henry Lascelles. He hoped it could be used to calm a panicked person who had seen something atrocious and horrifying. Long enough to subdue them or treat them if need be. This could be combined with Pale’s spell to help extricate Lascelles from a fairy enchantment. 

And if the man were not enchanted? If he were instead simply gone? Or if Childermass discovered him lost and wandering on a Faerie road? Unlike Lascelles, Childermass did not think he could bring himself to murder another human being, unless in self defense, or (as he’d considered previously) from extreme pity. Even a man as terrible as Henry Lascelles deserved to be brought back to London alive so that justice could be served. He would likely try to knock the man unconscious and then tie him up to Brewer’s saddle and carry him to Doncaster where he could be dealt with by law men there. 

It was a messy plan to say the least, but Childermass knew some spells that would freeze a person in place for a while, and one to mute sound. So perhaps he could simply incapacitate his rival and keep from having to listen to Lascelles’ threats and insults for the majority of the trip back. 

Armed with the knowledge that he’d be relatively well prepared should he actually encounter Lascelles upon the nearby Faerie road, he wrapped his coat more tightly around him and lay down to sleep until dawn. 

The sun hadn’t yet risen when he woke. He had always been an early riser, and so the gray pre-dawn light was more than enough to pull him from strange dreams, filled with shadows and clutching hands. 

He sat up, rubbed his eyes and then went to go make water behind a bush before gulping down some cold tea and eating some bread and cheese he’d brought with him. He had also brought along a change of clothing as well as several tightly rolled woolen blankets. Not knowing how long he’d be out on the Faerie road, he had been prepared for the trip to take as long as a week or two. He’d packed quite a bit of food, dried fruit, cheese, dried meat, bread and a small bottle of whiskey for the journey. Also a good length of rope, his pocketknife, some extra cloth for bandages and all the notes he had on useful spells that he could think of. 

He mounted Brewer and gently nudged him into a walk toward the entrance to the Faerie road. It was still there, just as he’d remembered it from a few months ago, a simple track flanked by low bushes and dark, solemn trees, leading off into the shadows of the forest. 

He came upon the statue of the Lady sooner than he’d expected. She loomed up out of the gray light, cloaked in the folds of a stone robe, her face impassive. A disembodied heart held in one open hand, an eye in the other. Beyond the statue, among a forest of thorn trees, was a clearing, and through the clearing ran a babbling brook. Childermass looked up at the trees surrounding the clearing and again saw the pale, dangling shapes of bodies, swinging from the branches. Some were merely skeletons, clothed in rags. Others were more recognizable as unlucky travelers who had happened upon the Champion of the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart. 

Beyond the brook, stood a tall stone tower, and high up in the tower at one of the small windows that opened upon its surface, a dim yellow light glowed. A shadow could be seen standing at the window looking out. This must be the Lady of the Castle. Childermass had no idea whether the Champion killed every man who entered the clearing, or if an official declaration needed to be made. He himself had politely declined when stumbling into the clearing on the way to Hurtfew Abbey, what felt like a long time ago now. But he’d always had something of a honeyed tongue when it came to resolving conflict. Except with Henry Lascelles that is. 

Speaking of Lascelles. Childermass looked around the clearing quickly, checking for signs of life, but other than the eerie shadow that watched him from the tower, he saw none. The brook splashed by, far too cheerfully for its surroundings. A breeze, chilly and scented of rot, blew through the nearby thorn tree branches and caused them to rattle ominously as bone clacked against bone and leaves rustled. 

Childermass had just made up his mind to leave, for the place unnerved him far too much to stay very long if Lascelles was not here, when his eyes caught on a metallic glint by the forest’s edge. That was when he saw that what he’d thought had been another corpse hanging from a tree, was in fact a man, standing near the trunk of one of the trees. The man wore clothes that were much faded and torn from time and wear and from the elements. His face was covered in dirt, his hair a tangled mess. It took a few seconds for Childermass to recognize him as Mr. Lascelles. 

Lascelles held a pistol in his hand. It hung limply, for there appeared to be no strength to his limbs. He leaned against the nearby tree trunk, appearing too exhausted or too confused to stand fully on his own. Childermass felt an instant and unwelcome stab of pity for the filthy creature Lascelles had become. He’d once put so much pride in his appearance and the quality and cut of his clothing. Now he wore filthy, faded rags, barely held together across his chest and back, arms and legs. 

It took a moment for Lascelles to realize that he was not alone, and when he lifted his head and turned his haunted, hollow eyes in Childermass’ direction, Childermass felt a chill tingle unpleasantly down his spine. “I am the Champion of the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart,” he intoned in a dull voice. “I am sworn to protect the Lady of the Castle from harm.” He spoke with no emotion, without seeming to remember the meaning of the words, and took a shambling step toward Childermass.

Childermass readied several spells in his mind and gripped his pocket knife in his fist inside the pocket of his coat. He did not flee, nor did he advance. He held his ground and waited to see what Lascelles would do next. 

Lascelles drew slowly closer, and then, to Childermass’ surprise, a spark of recognition ignited in the man’s dark, haunted eyes. “You!” he exclaimed. “You! You filthy thief! You horrible liar!” His eyes grew wide and his pace quickened. “You! The magician’s assistant! You scoundrel! You cur!” His face changed rapidly from that of a lax idiot to a rictus of pure rage. His steps grew more sure and swift as he drew closer across the clearing, and Childermass decided that Lascelles was still very much alive inside his enchantment and that he’d best cast a spell or two in self defense. And quickly, before the man remembered to use the pistol he was waving about in anger as he advanced.

He muttered a few words and made a complex motion with his hand and Lascelles froze in place. Another swiftly executed spell and Lascelles’ rageful diatribe cut off mid insult, and the man was left mute. His jaw worked uselessly, his eyes flared with rage as he kept trying to speak, but no sound came out. Childermass breathed a quick sigh of relief at having subdued Lascelles for the time being. It was impossible to concentrate on Pale’s Restoration and Rectification while being attacked by an enraged and enchanted man with a pistol. 

He quickly set about saying the words to Martin Pale’s spell, holding up the makeshift metal cross and chanting the phrases, some of them quite complex, over and over again. The only indication he had that it might be taking effect was that Lascelles slowly but surely became subdued. He stopped trying to speak and his mouth fell open. His muscles, once tight and clenched from his striving to move, went lax as well. He seemed to slump where he stood and the fire in his eyes was mercifully extinguished. 

Childermass finished Restoration and Rectification and began on the spell to temporarily erase a person’s memories. He didn’t need Lascelles coming to awareness again, free of the enchantment, yet still hell bent on murdering his rescuer. If he removed, say, the last two years of the man's memories, then he should only have an enraged gentleman on his hands, rather than an enraged gentleman who particularly wished to gut his least favorite man of business. 

Once he had spoken the words and made the hand motions that accompanied Norrell’s forgetfulness spell, he dared to remove the spell that held Lascelles motionless and waited to see what happened. The man lurched into motion, staggering a few steps toward Childermass, a very confused expression on his face. Childermass readied himself for a fight, but Lascelles only let out a ragged noise, half groan, half sigh, and fell to his knees at Childermass’ feet. 

At that moment, a flash of light caught Childermass’ attention and he looked up to see that there was a burst of illumination from the window atop the tower. A horrible noise, like an animal screaming in pain emitted from that direction, and the shadow that had once watched from the window, became an inky stain that leaked over the window’s ledge and was now rapidly traveling down the side of the tower. It was as if the Lady in the tower (if ever it was a lady, as it had always appeared to look like a vaguely human shape, shrouded in shadow) had become a black liquid, made of mud or treacle. This ghostly substance now crept its way like some sort of horrifying ink stain, down the tower’s outer wall. 

Soon, the shapeless mass had reached the base of the tower and now rose up into a vaguely human form. There was a suggestion of shoulders and the slight articulation of a neck and a head among the blackness. It was devoid of light or color, other than pitch darkness, but it reached out toward Childermass and Lascelles with what looked like claw tipped fingers as it advanced. It had no face, no discernible feet or legs to propel it forward, and yet it floated toward them with menacing certainty.

“Mr. Lascelles, I think it is time we left,” Childermass said, reaching down to grasp Lascelles by the arm to haul him to his feet. The man complied, but seemed to have no awareness of his surroundings. He looked at Childermass with confusion plain upon his face. “Look behind you Mr. Lascelles. Your Lady is none too happy with us,” Childermass told the man as he tucked the cross away in the pocket of his coat. Lascelles did look, then gasped and turned back to Childermass, his face whiter than it had been. Childermass took Lascelles’ pistol from his limp, unresisting hand and threw it into the woods. Best not to have weapons about in an uncertain situation.

The dark Lady of the Castle had started to forge the brook and was only a few yards away now, her form floating above the water without touching it. Childermass tightened his grip on Lascelles' arm and dragged him toward Brewer. 

“ _How dare you take my Champion from me!_ ” called an unearthly, rasping voice behind them. Childermass did not turn to respond. Instead he helped a clumsy but thankfully compliant Lascelles to climb onto Brewer’s back before climbing up after him and kicking the horse into motion. 

“ _How daaaarreee youuuuuu!_ ” wailed the Lady again from behind them. “ _You shall never leave my lands! Not until you return my Champion! Come back this inssssstant!_ ” The shadowy lady kept up her litany of threats and cries as Brewer galloped away from the clearing. Childermass secured Lascelles, who was still dazed and uncomprehending and as limp as a rag doll, with an arm around the man’s waist. He tried to ignore the rank smell of his greasy hair and filthy clothes as they thundered down the path that led out of the clearing. 

Childermass immediately knew that something was amiss. He had only ridden for a few short minutes to reach the clearing, and now, the Faerie road stretched out before them, straight and shadowy for what felt like miles. Well, enchantments and Faerie traps aside, the most important task now was to escape the vengeful Lady of the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart. Childermass kicked Brewer into a run, hung onto Lascelles as tightly as he could and felt his horse’s muscles bunch and release beneath them as they were propelled down the road at a swift pace. 

He dared not look behind him at first, for fear the Lady had become some sort of wraith who would take to the air to sail after them, like a vengeful bird of prey. Eventually, when they had ridden hard for some minutes, he did look back. Thankfully, his trusty horse seemed to have outrun the Lady, for the road behind them was empty. He pulled up gently on Brewer’s reins to slow him to a canter and then to a walk. He had no wish to wear the poor creature out. 

Lascelles had slumped back against him, his head lolling bonelessly against Childermass’ shoulder, and while Childermass could not see his face very well from his vantage point of sitting behind the man, he could tell that Lascelles had lost consciousness. He’d been very thin When Childermass found him, and he hoped he hadn’t expired, though truth be told, if he had, it would save Childermass the trouble of dealing with him for however long it took to leave the Faerie road and find their way back to English soil once more.


	2. Chapter 2

It was impossible to tell what time it was beneath the dark trees of the Faerie road, and Childermass was loath to stop moving, but he was suddenly bone weary, and Lascelles needed seeing to, and so he pulled Brewer to a stop near what he hoped was a benign clearing in the forest. Luckily, a clear stream bubbled and splashed nearby, which would provide water. He knew several tricks for rendering Faerie water inert of its enchanting properties, and so he was glad to see the stream. He shook Lascelles gently and was surprised to be somewhat relieved when the man stirred and moaned, lifting his head from Childermass’ shoulder to look around him in confusion. 

“Where are we?” he asked, his voice a cracked whisper, just loud enough for Childermass to hear. 

“We are in Faerie,” Childermass replied, “can you dismount on your own, or do you need my help?” He tried to keep the sharpness from his tone, he didn’t need Lascelles getting insulted and belligerent, erased memories or no, but the other man didn’t seem to notice. He only nodded, indicating that he did need help. 

Childermass steadied Lascelles in the saddle and carefully dismounted, then held his hands up to help the man to the ground. Lascelles didn’t so much dismount as slide out of the saddle like a sack of potatoes into Childermass waiting arms. He smelled terrible, and Childermass quickly straightened the man up and held him at arm's length. 

Lascelles’ eyes were a strange mix of wariness and exhaustion. He looked like he sorely needed some food and a bath and a week’s worth of sleep. It irritated Childermass to suddenly be cast in the role of nursemaid to his worst enemy, but he was loath to allow another human being, no matter how repugnant, to languish in this manner. He walked Lascelles over to a fallen log at the edge of the clearing for him to sit upon, and turned away to go and find kindling for a fire, but Lascelles grabbed at his sleeve, tried to prevent him from walking away.

“Don’t go!” he said urgently. “I’m frightened of being alone.”

There was a childlike vulnerability to his request, and it surprised Childermass to the degree that he found he had no desire to snap back at the man, as he would have in times past.

“It is alright,” he said, a little unsettled at the softness he felt compelled to use when responding to Lascelles. “I’m not going anywhere. Just a few feet away to gather kindling for a fire.”

This seemed to mollify Lascelles and he let go of Childermass’ sleeve. His eyes though, dark, with hollows under them, never left Childermass and his gaze followed Childermass around the clearing as he bent and collected a large armful of fallen twigs. He piled them in the center of the clearing and lit them using his tinder box until a crackling fire illuminated the twilight glow of the clearing with a cheery orange light.

“Are you hungry?” He asked Lascelles, and saw the man nod enthusiastically. He went over to his saddlebags and took out a handful of dried apple slices and dried strips of beef and passed them to Lascelles, who set upon them like a ravenous dog. Childermass ate some bread and some pieces of apple as well while setting up a pair of hastily constructed bed rolls for them to sleep upon later that evening. Lascelles had swiftly polished off his food, and so Childermass went and fetched him some more. Some bread and more dried meat. He was pleased to see Lascelles eat these at a slower pace. 

When he’d finished, Childermass took a blanket and a small bar of soap from his saddle bags. “You’re not going to like this Mr. Lascelles sir, but we need to bathe you.” 

“Bathe me?” Lascelles did not sound insulted, only confused. 

“Yes sir, it appears as if you have not bathed in a very long time, and you are… rather pungent.”

Lascelles shockingly did not argue. He only nodded in agreement, much like a sleepy child who rises in the night from bad dreams and who only wants to be reassured before being put back to bed. Childermass took him by the arm and led him over to the stream. “You’ll need to undress,” he said. “I can help you if you need me to.” He wondered for perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes over how he had suddenly become a valet to his worst rival.

Lascelles only nodded before absently pulling at his clothing. He seemed useless at accomplishing the simplest of tasks, and Childermass huffed in frustration before starting to unbutton his ragged, stained shirt and undo his stained breeches. Lascelles immediately left off trying to undress himself and stood there, gently swaying with exhaustion. Childermass could not help but pity him. The man was a horrible, soulless villain, but even a villain did not deserve torture, and Lascelles had most assuredly been tortured. Quite soundly and for months before Childermass found him. 

Soon he had all of Lascelles’ clothes off and Lascelles had totteringly toed his way out of his shoes, which being that they were likely expensive and made of Italian leather, were still in comparatively good shape. His stockings had worn away to tatters long before, and were only represented by mere shreds that were still stuck inside each shoe. He stood before Childermass, filthy and naked and Childermass tried not to look too closely at the man’s painfully skinny arms and legs, his slightly convex belly and dark patch of copper hair at his crotch which only partially hid his privates. He looked emaciated, a fact that had been somewhat hidden by his clothes. Childermass wondered how it was that he had eaten while enchanted. Or perhaps he had been fed by Faerie magic alone, by the moonlight and the mist?

“What I am going to do is to say a spell over this blanket and then soak it in the stream to render the water immune to enchantments, then I will use it to wash you. I will also warm the water a bit with magic so that you do not freeze to death. Is that alright?” 

Lascelles, still looking lost and confused only nodded in response, so Childermass said the spells, for protection and warmth and dunked the blanket in the stream, wetting it until it was sodden and dripping. He then used a generous portion of the blanket to wring out over Lascelles’s head. The water sluiced its way through his hair and down his back and shoulders and coursed over his face and chest and belly. He jumped a bit, and let out a small yelp of surprise, for even warmed by magic, the water was still cool, only not the glacial temperature it was naturally. 

Childermass used some of the water from the blanket to build a lather with his hands, and then, pausing just a moment to consider the ridiculous and humiliating act he was about to commit, he began scrubbing Lascelles’ hair with his soaped up fingers. He could feel the dirt and grease breaking up under his fingertips as he scrubbed, and it was strangely satisfying, if a little disgusting. Next he resoaped his hands and scrubbed them across Lascelles’ back and under his arms. 

He wrung the blanket out again over Lascelles' head, washing away some of the soap and wetting him more thoroughly. He then handed the soap to Lascelles. “Get your hands into a good lather and clean your private parts,” he instructed, wincing at the intimacy of the request, but he was not about to scrub the man’s bollocks or his rear end for him. That was a price too steep to pay for being a decent person. 

Lascelles luckily understood him and had the wherewithal to do as he was told, scrubbing himself thoroughly enough to clean himself well. Several more dunkings and scrubbings and rinsings later, he looked like a drowned rat, but a clean one. Childermass performed another spell to remove the excess moisture and dry the blanket and then used it to dry Lascelles’ hair and arms and chest. He wrapped the man up and led him back to the fire and sat him down on his bedroll to dry off. He turned to go back to the stream, to freshen himself up and fetch Lascelles’ things when the man grabbed for him again. “Please, don’t leave me alone!” he yelped, quite loudly, and Childermass could hear a genuine panic in his voice. 

“It is alright,” he said again. “I’ll just be over there sir. Not far. You’ll be able to hear me. I’ll only be gone a few minutes.”

Lascelles nodded reluctantly, looking miserable. Childermass went back to the stream and quickly performed his own magically enhanced toilet. He grabbed Lascelles' clothes and shoes and returned, throwing the filthy clothes immediately upon the fire. The man’s shoes, he rinsed off and propped up against a tree root near the fire to dry. Lascelles had no response to this and only sat and watched with empty eyes as his once beloved, now completely ruined clothing smoked and grew black and dissolved into the flames. Childermass threw a couple of large logs on the fire so that it would grow hotter and bigger to scare away any fae creatures that might be tempted to visit in the night. He sat down on his own bedroll and took out his small bottle of whiskey. 

“Here,” he said, holding the bottle out toward Lascelles. “Take a gulp of this and swish it about in your mouth and then spit it out. I hate to waste the whiskey, but your breath is atrocious, and this will help make it sweeter.”

Lascelles took the bottle, sniffed it with an expression of distaste, but he took a gulp and swished and spat as he was asked. 

“You can have a real drink if you’d like,” Childermass offered. “It will help you sleep.”

Again, Lascelles complied with his suggestion, taking a large mouthful of the whiskey and gulping it down, grimacing at the harsh fumes of the alcohol before handing it back to Childermass. “Thank you,” he mumbled. 

Childermass almost fell over backward in surprise. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Lascelles say those two words out loud in all the years he’d known him. Letting the man’s highly incongruous thanks go unremarked upon, he took his bottle back and took a large swig for himself before capping it and putting it in his jacket pocket. He handed Lascelles his water skin, and the man drank deeply from it and handed that back as well. 

For a while, Childermass simply sat there with Lascelles, feeling the warmth of the fire, letting the other man dry off for a spell. Once he gauged Lascelles to be mostly free from dampness, he went to his saddle bags and removed his spare pair of breeches and spare shirt. He didn’t bother asking Lascelles to dress himself, as he had proven to be easily confused and as weak as a kitten. He simply put the shirt over the man’s head and assisted him in getting his arms through the sleeves, then helped him on with his breeches, having him stand briefly to pull them up and fasten them. Lascelles sat back down and wrapped the blanket back around him and stared into the fire with blank eyes. 

He looked human again, clean and well ordered, but far different than Childermass remembered. For one he had always been a long and lanky sort of man, and was now even thinner, with sharper cheekbones and darker circles under his eyes. But aside from that, his hair, usually so carefully coiffed, was ruffled and soft and glowed a brassy copper color in the orange light of the fire. His clothes were usually perfectly tailored and of fine quality, and now he sat, veritably swimming in Childermass’ plain shirt and breeches, wrapped in a rough blanket, looking like a particularly gangly lad. If it weren’t for the dark hollows under his eyes and his vacant expression he could almost have been ten years younger. 

Childermass scolded himself for having such whimsical imaginings about a man who up until a few hours ago he’d been half hoping would expire naturally to avoid the trouble of having to travel with him. 

Lascelles had clearly been profoundly changed by his enchantment, and of course by Childermass’ own spell of forgetfulness. The spell should be wearing off sometime within the next day, and Childermass considered renewing it, over and over until they left the Faerie lands, for what good would memories do the man now?

These were problems for tomorrow though. For now, whether it be night or three in the afternoon (it was impossible to tell by the eerie, blue-gray light under the trees), they needed rest. He turned to Lascelles. “We should sleep now if we can. We will need it for our travels tomorrow.” He did not bother to tell Lascelles that he had no idea where they were, or how to get home. That might only upset him needlessly, if in fact he reacted to the news at all. He’d been docile and confused ever since they’d fled the Castle.

Childermass wrapped his coat around himself as a blanket and lay down on his bedroll, fully expecting Lascelles to do the same. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. It had been a difficult day for all that it had felt like only a few hours since he’d woken up outside of the Faerie road. A moment or two later however, he heard Lascelles move from across the fire, and then heard a shuffling of bare feet against fallen leaves. Then he felt a finger poking him gently in the shoulder. 

“Sir?” Lascelles' voice was tremulous and far younger than his years. “Sir, I am frightened. Might I lay down by you?” 

Childermass looked up at him and saw something he’d never thought he’d ever see. Lascelles stood over him, hands clasped together in front of his chest, clutching his extra blanket, as if in supplication. His hair was disarrayed and messy, but gleaming from being freshly washed. His clothes were almost comically oversized and hung from his frame, making him look all the world like a penitent choir boy. His face was schooled in the most humble and beseeching expression, and Childermass almost did not recognize him for the strange incongruity of the expression with the man who wore it. 

He was struck speechless for a brief moment, before gathering his wits and clearing his throat. “Yes, I suppose so,” he replied, edging a bit further from the fire so that Lascelles could lie down between him and the warm flames. 

“Oh thank you sir!” Lascelles exclaimed softly as he placed his blanket next to Childermass and lay down upon it. He curled toward the fire, with his back to Childermass and seemed to be content with this arrangement. Childermass, still reeling a little at the behavior of this new person he thought he’d known, but who was now surprising him at every turn, settled back upon his own blanket. He eventually noticed that Lascelles was shivering slightly, so he threw half of his great coat over the other man, and was strangely pleased when his shivering stopped. 

Lascelles then inched his way back toward Childermass’ body, presumably toward his warmth, and Childermass was shocked to realize that he was fighting an urge to wrap an arm around the man’s waist and pull him in closer. Perhaps it was Lascelles’ blatant vulnerability and newly acquired innocence that drove these impulses. 

_Or perhaps it is because you have not lain with a man in many months and you miss it._ His thoughts, unavoidably honest as usual, made his cheeks and chest flush with shameful embarrassment. The realization that he might wish to be close to Lascelles for the purposes of lustful intimacy was immediately abhorrent to him. Quickly shoving the thoughts down, he shivered with revulsion and inched his way back, a little further away from the curled up man lying beside him. He resolved then and there to find himself a new lover immediately upon finding their way back to English soil. If his inattention in that area of his life had caused him to wish to be closer to Henry Lascelles, then he must be sorely in need of some diversion indeed. 

He kept watch on Lascelles, on the back of his copper colored head, on the rise and fall of his breathing until it slowed and stilled in sleep. He then muttered a few spells to guard the camp while they slept that would alert him to any intruders, and fell asleep himself, for he was very tired after the trying events of the day. 


	3. Chapter 3

He awoke with a knife at his throat, and Henry Lascelles’ terrified face, shoved close to his own. “Who are you, and where are we?” the man whispered, his voice hoarse and rough. Fortunately, his breath had much improved. _Unfortunately_ , he had found Childermass’ pocket knife and had it pressed snuggly and quite uncomfortably against the front of Childermass’ neck, under his Adam's apple.

Childermass swallowed thickly, which only pressed the knife a bit further against his skin. He could feel the sting of it biting into his flesh. Lascelles was clearly in a panic. Apparently, the memory stealing spell had worn off quicker than Childermass had intended. The man’s dark eyes flicked wildly over Childermass’ face, and he had a hand twisted into the front of Childermass’ shirt. He was pressed up against Childermass like a lover, but the expression on his face was far from affectionate. He looked like a caged animal.

“I will gladly answer all your questions if you will please remove my knife from my throat,” Childermass said very carefully. He did not want to anger Lascelles, nor frighten him any further. He gently and slowly reached up with his hand and wrapped his fingers around the fist Lascelles’ had made in his shirt front. “Give me the knife Mr. Lascelles and we can talk.” His heart was racing and his breath was starting to come faster as his once sleeping body woke up to the current situation. This was all a bit too reminiscent of the last time he and Lascelles and a knife had all been in close association. 

“Who is Mr. Lascelles?” asked Lascelles, and Childermass felt his eyebrows climbing in surprise. Apparently the spell had been a bit too effective. 

“You, have no memory of who you are?” Childermass asked. He used the question as a distraction while he gently pulled Lascelles’ knife wielding hand away from his throat. He thanked God that the man allowed this to happen, and then further allowed Childermass to carefully pry his fingers from the handle of the knife and take it from him. It helped that he was severely underfed and still probably quite weak.

Childermass slowly pushed Lascelles away from him and sat up. Lascelles immediately scrambled back, was up like a shot, backing farther from Childermass and the fire, as if it was Childermass who had just threatened him with a knife, rather than the reverse. He looked around him in panicked confusion, at the endless, twilight forest, his chest heaving. “Where in hell are we? Who are you? How did I get to this place?” he was clearly beginning to lose control of his wits. Childermass rose slowly to his feet, making calming motions with his hands, but not coming any closer. 

“Stay away from me!” Lascelles shouted, unnecessarily, as Childermass had not moved. 

“You are panicking sir, you are not thinking straight. I do not plan to harm you, or else why would I have bathed you, fed you and let you sleep next to me for warmth?”

Lascelles seemed to calm down a little at hearing this. “I only have the dimmest recollection of the events of last night,” he said, eyes still wild, and Childermass felt an inexplicable stab of disappointment lance through his chest. He would miss pliable, polite Lascelles. He should have known however that it was too good to be true. 

“Come back and sit down and talk,” he said, using the voice he used to calm a bucking colt in order to toss a rope around its neck and lead it back to the stable. The voice he used when trying to coax Norrell down from one of his episodes. It worked. Lascelles approached again, keeping wary eyes to Childermass and keeping the fire between them. He did not sit, but he relaxed a little and stood in one place, and Childermass counted that as a victory. 

“I released you from a fairy enchantment only yesterday,” he explained. “By my estimation, you were enslaved by this fairy, the Lady of the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart for perhaps five months when I found you. Does any of this sound familiar?” He watched Lascelles carefully, tracking the changes in his expression, looking for signs of fear and anguish, or of any sort of recognition. He saw only wide eyed confusion.

“No, none of that sounds familiar in the slightest,” Lascelles replied, sounding suspicious. “How do I know that you are not some highwayman, and that you haven’t stolen all my money and now plan on leaving me, penniless and abandoned along some strange road in the forest?”

Childermass sighed. “Because sir, as I have already stated, I bathed you and fed and clothed you last night from my own store of food and clothing. I let you sleep by my fire and put my coat over you when you were cold. These are not the acts of a heartless thief. And besides all of that, you have no money. You were enchanted.”

Lascelles squinted at Childermass uncomprehendingly for a moment. “Well then, who are you?” he demanded.

Childermass flinched inwardly. He did not relish trying to help Lascelles remember his life before his enchantment. It was akin to unearthing refuse you’d thought was safely buried in the garden and spreading it about among one’s flowers. “I am John Childermass,” he said, bracing for some sort of harsh reaction. “I was once a servant of Gilbert Norrell.”

Lascelles exhibited not the smallest spark of recognition. His face remained utterly blank, if mildly affronted. “I’ve never heard of you before, nor of this Norrell person,” he replied, sounding irritable. That much at least had not changed significantly. Childermass could clearly hear hints of Lascelles’ old haughtiness peeking through.

“Well then sir, I am not certain what I may do to help you remember,” Childermass said. “All you need to know at the moment is that you were enchanted, enslaved, and it did not go well for you. When I found you, you were half dead from starvation and stinking to high heaven. You are in somewhat better shape now, but you need to eat and drink much to regain the strength you once had.” 

He did not wish to tell Lascelles that Childermass himself had been the cause of his memory loss. Not yet at any rate. Not until he knew more about the situation in which they both found themselves. Hopefully the man would assume it had been the horrors of his enchantment that had scrubbed his memory clean. Either way, it was a mercy.

Childermass took a deep breath before continuing. “We are not unfortunately at home. This is a fairy road and we are in the lands of Faerie, and I am unsure how to get us out. So that is the size and shape of our present situation.”

Lascelles did not appear to like this statement, but he remained silent, frowning slightly. 

“Will you not sit down and have some tea and some breakfast sir? We may talk more if you wish, but standing there, treating me as a vicious highwayman is completely unnecessary.”

Old Lascelles would have surely bristled at this, while new Lascelles only shrugged and looked around, presumably for somewhere to sit. “Here,” Childermass handed him the blanket he’d slept upon the night before. “You may sit on this and I will prepare us some tea.”

“Very well,” Lascelles remarked stiffly, but sit he did, arranging his long limbs awkwardly and settling in a bit closer to Childermass. 

When Childermass passed him a tin cup of hot tea and some bread and cheese, he said “Thank you,” and Childermass nearly dropped the food and drink from surprise. Apparently, vestiges of the polite man from the night before still remained. 

Childermass got his own breakfast and tea and sat down as well. “How much do you remember, sir?” he asked. He needed to discern exactly who it was who sat with him by the fire. How much of Henry Lascelles was still there. 

“To own the truth, nothing,” replied Lascelles’ around a large bite of bread and cheese. “I have no memory of anything before last night, and even that much is quite hazy.” 

“Do you know which country in which we live? Who is king?”

“We live in England, the greatest country upon the earth, and the king is his royal highness King George.” Lascelles replied, as if by rote. 

“And do you recall where you live in particular sir?”

“No,” replied Lascelles. “But I am fairly sure it is near or around London from the state of my accent. You yourself are quite clearly a Yorkshireman,” he said it without a sneer in his voice and this also surprised Childermass.

“Yes, you do indeed live in London,” Childermass admitted. “Your name is Henry Lascelles. Does that name truly mean nothing to you?”

“Henry?” Mr. Lascelles made a face. “What a plain and uninspired name. I’d have wished to be an Avery or a William, or perhaps a Lucien or a Reginald.” 

Childermass could not help but huff out a laugh at Lascelles’ impressions of his name. “I’ve never heard you complain of it before now,” he remarked. 

“So, you and I know one another, do we sir?” Lascelles asked, and again Childermass was taken aback, this time by the formality of his address. Lascelles had never called him sir before. Only ‘servant’ and ‘you there,’ and on one memorable and fairly recent occasion ‘you dregs of every Yorkshire gutter.’ 

Childermass nodded. He did not wish to delve too deeply into the details of their prior association, but nor did he want to lie to the man. “I was the servant and assistant to Gilbert Norrell, the magician of Hanover-Square, and you sir were his business associate.”

“Magician?” Lascelles scowled. “How atrocious! You say that I was a business associate? Of a _magician_? Why, what sort of business could I have possibly had with a charlatan such as that?”

Childermass decided to keep things as simple as possible. “He was in fact a practical magician, and though you did not hold much stock in magic when you first met him, by the time he... passed on, you seemed comfortable enough with it. England is full of magic now,” he added. 

“Oh, well then, I suppose our association would not be considered so very inappropriate,” Lascelles mused, and then gulped down some tea and took another large bite of bread. He seemed to care about the way he was perceived by the public far more than whom he had befriended before his enchantment. Childermass said a brief, silent prayer of thanks that he was so disinterested in the details. “And was I...was I an important person?” Lascelles asked, the innocent hopefulness in his voice was unmistakable.

Childermass inwardly rolled his eyes at how very Lascelles Lascelles clearly still was before responding. “Yes,” he replied. “One of the most well known men in London.”

“And you? You were not very important I take it? Being a servant?” Lascelles asked, but Childermass did not sense an insult in the question. Merely a vain and self centered man trying to place himself within a social hierarchy he could not remember. 

“No sir, I was of no importance at all,” Childermass replied with a sly, ironic grin.

“Well, _I_ certainly like you very much. You are quite helpful and kind and more than a little handsome,” Lascelles said. 

Childermass spat out his tea. It spluttered and hissed in the fire. 

“Do not be surprised sir,” Lascelles continued, apparently unaware that Childermass was staring at him as if he’d sprouted an extra head. “It is clear that we both fancy members of the same sex. You have a way about you, a sort of...how shall I put it, a gentleness that speaks volumes to a man such as myself. I may not remember my life, but I do remember where it is I like to put my prick, and I sense that you like yours in the same sort of way.” 

Childermass struggled valiantly to regain his composure by coughing into his hand. “I...I cannot deny it sir,” he choked out after a moment spent calming himself and absorbing the words he’d just heard Lascelles say. “I had just...It is only that I had not known that about you… before.”

“Mmhmm,” hummed Lascelles with a small grin. “I am certain that I must have indulged such desires, perhaps with paid boys? I must have had some money had I not? And I sense that I am the sort of man who indulges in things that he enjoys.” He then gave Childermass a smoldering look that spoke volumes. 

Childermass cleared his throat and rose swiftly. “It is best we move on sir,” he said, his face heating up and his head spinning. Of all the things he’d expected to happen on this journey, being delicately propositioned for sex by Henry Lascelles was _not_ among them. He was both unsettled and strangely intrigued by the implication in the man’s knowing glance, and the very fact that he was _at all_ intrigued made him even more unsettled. 

To cover for his confusion, he began folding up his blankets and cleaning up the camp. Lascelles, seeming to understand that a response to his silent request was not forthcoming, finished his breakfast and rose as well. Childermass noted with a familiar flash of irritation that the man did not offer to help. But, he supposed now that Lascelles knew the specific status they both held and how Childermass was naturally beneath him on the social ladder, that he should have expected as much. 

Still, despite his snobbery and his demanding nature, it was a different man entirely that stood by the fire, nursing his tea and watching Childermass clean up their campsite. A man who was far more polite, far friendlier and far more _vulnerable_ than the Lascelles Childermass knew. There was no bitterness about him. No rage. No sense that he was plotting or planning anything covert. He seemed guileless, if a little obnoxious. 

Childermass did not know how to behave around this new version of Lascelles. How was he meant to feel about a man who had once hated him, had taken a knife to his face, but who was now shaping up to be a relatively pleasant traveling companion? How to treat a man who had loathed him with a burning passion, but who was now casting flirtatious, cautious glances at him over the rim of his teacup? Rather than think too much about it at the present time, Childermass focused his energy instead on dousing the fire and saddling Brewer. 

“I think it best if you ride Brewer while I walk alongside,” he said to Lascelles. “You are still likely quite weak from your ordeal, while I am well rested.”

“That’s kind of you,” replied Lascelles. The thanks seemed genuine. Not just a perfunctory response, and Childermass wondered how many more shocks and surprises he’d be subjected to before the day was out. 

He helped Lascelles to mount up, then the two of them set out onto the endless Faerie road. “Unfortunately, though the road into Faery was a short one that led directly to where you were being held prisoner, that road has now disappeared,” he explained. Better to tell Lascelles of their predicament sooner than later. Being as he now seemed to have his wits about him. “I have been thinking of ways in which we might find the exit and return to England,” Childermass confided as they walked. “There are a few spells I can try, but we must travel back the way we came a little ways, to get as close to where I believe the original exit was. That is most likely the best way to effect a crossing.”

“So you can do magic as well?” Lascelles asked, sounding impressed. 

“Aye.”

“Can I do magic?” he asked.

“No,” replied Childermass. “You were not overly fond of it if memory serves.”

“And yet I chose to associate with a practical magician. That is quite interesting,” Lascelles said. 

“Indeed,” said Childermass. He had no intention of offering any more information than he had to, and Lascelles seemed strangely unhurried in his exploration of who he had been before his memory loss. 

“I am sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name. It was quite unusual,” said Lascelles. 

“It is Childermass. John Childermass.” 

“Childermass. Named after the Feast of The Holy Innocents? After the slaughtering of newborn boys by King Herod?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Childermass replied. “It is just a name, like any other. I had never thought overly much about its deeper meaning.”

They rode on in silence for a while. Childermass remained alert to the chittering, rustling forest on either side of the road and kept his eyes peeled for familiar landmarks. It would not do to stumble back onto the lands of the Lady of the Castle again without realizing it. His plan was to travel close to the Lady’s lair but not into it. 

“Did I have a wife or any children?” Lascelles asked next. Childermass was taken aback for a moment, but decided that no harm could come from answering his questions 

“No you did not. You were quite the confirmed bachelor,” he said. 

“And you and I? How well did we know one another?” Lascelles’ voice was polite and curious, but Childermass felt a jolt of apprehension at hearing the question. He had to tread carefully if he were to keep Lascelles calm and compliant until they could escape these enchanted lands. If the man’s memory were regained from something Childermass said, things could go wrong very quickly. 

“As I said, I worked for Mr. Norrell and you were his business associate. We knew one another well enough, but we were never what one would call friends.” There. That was vague enough of a description of their horrendous relationship. Perhaps Lascelles would not ask any further questions.

“That is a pity,” Lascelles said. “I cannot imagine not wanting to know more about you. You seem quite mysterious.” 

Childermass tripped and stumbled, righting himself swiftly. When would he grow accustomed to these sudden compliments and little flirtatious remarks? And why did his chest warm at hearing them? “I am not mysterious in the slightest,” he said, hoping to dissuade Lascelles from such statements, from becoming too curious. “Just a simple servant. I had no money and no title.”

Lascelles hummed in acknowledgment of this fact and seemed lost in thought for a moment. “What sort of person was I?” he asked. 

“I think we are nearing the lands of the Lady of the Plucked Eye and Heart,” Childermass said hurriedly, wanting very much to avoid answering that particular question, but also, because the endless forest had started to take on a familiar appearance, and he suspected they might be getting close. He stopped Brewer with a gentle tug on the reins in his hand and looked about them. Which spell to try? He decided to start with a revealing spell, normally used to uncover hard to follow pathways through thick woods that was useful to huntsmen and those tracking large game though dense underbrush. 

He closed his eyes and began to chant softly under his breath. He was surprised when Lascelles seemed to sense the gravity of the situation and remained silent, for he was a man not typically known for silence or patience. 

Once the spell was done, Childermass opened his eyes and looked around. There it was! A faint glowing trail into the trees by the side of the road a few yards away. It must be the pathway down which he had traveled to get to the Lady’s castle from the road outside of Doncaster. “I think that is our exit over there,” he told Lascelles, before leading Brewer in that direction. 

They arrived at the entrance to the glowing trail and Childermass led them into the woods, following the gleaming line that wound its way like a silent and imobile stream through the trees. They had walked for some minutes before Childermass realized that something was wrong. They should have arrived at the road to Doncaster several minutes past, and yet they were still surrounded by the ghostly trunks of trees and the unearthly chatter and rustle of the Faerie forest. 

“It did not work,” he remarked with a huff of frustration.

“What do you mean it did not work? This is the pathway back is it not?” Lascelles asked, a little of his old imperious tone returning. As if the forest should be held accountable for not fulfilling their wishes. 

“Yes sir, but I only rode for a few short minutes from English lands to reach the Lady’s Castle, and we have walked for far longer, and still we are in Faerie. It appears we are stuck.”

“Well? What will you do next?” Lascelles asked, a touch demandingly, and Childermass frowned up at him. There it was. Another distinct echo of the man Lascelles had once been. 

“I am not certain yet. Let us first go back the way we came, to the main Faerie road, and then I can think on it.”

He turned Brewer and the three of them walked back to the road in silence. Once they were back on the path, Childermass paused to consider their options. All at once, he remembered something that the Lady had screamed at them as they’d ran from the Castle. 

_You shall never leave my lands! Not until you return my Champion!_

His blood ran cold and dread crept across his scalp with icy fingers. 

“You’ve gone quiet,” Lascelles remarked in an irritating moment of insight. “You’ve gone quiet and you look as if you’ve seen a ghost. What is the matter?”

“Nothing. Nothing is the matter. I simply need to think, that is all,” Childermass replied, perhaps a bit more harshly than he’d intended. He now had a sneaking suspicion that they would not find a way out. Not unless he returned Lascelles to the Lady’s clutches.

This would not be possible. Unlike the old version of Lascelles, Childermass was no murderer. He would never be able to bring himself to deliver the poor man back into the enchantments of the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart. Such a fate was too cruel. And to know that he had been the one to visit it upon Lascelles? He may not ever be able to sleep the whole night through again for the rest of his life. 

But how to escape otherwise? What other options were open to them? He would need time and focus to think of a plan. But for now, he was loath to bring up the subject, not before he had some idea of how to avoid Lascelles’ fate. Otherwise he’d needlessly panic the man. It was a blessing that his traveling companion had no memories of his time spent enslaved by the Lady of the Castle. Childermass hoped, for Lascelles’ sake that the memories never returned. 

“I think perhaps we should try the opposite tactic,” he said aloud, because he did not want to sit with his racing thoughts for too long in silence. “Let us ride away from the Lady’s lands and see if some new exit or new path presents itself. Nothing of use can be found this close to her castle.” He tugged Brewer down the path, back the way they’d come that morning. 

“If you say so,” Lascelles agreed amicably. “I will rely upon your obvious experience and knowledge with these sorts of situations. I say,” he remarked, his voice growing a little wary. “Why is it that you keep staring at me whenever I speak? Surely my words are not all that shocking to make you gape so?” 

Childermass shut his mouth with a soft snap. “I am sorry sir, it is only that you are different than I remember you, and the contrast is a bit surprising.”

Lascelles frowned. “You never did answer my question. I asked you what sort of person I was, and you did not answer me. Do so now please. Was I some horrible tyrant? Some bumbling fool? How do you expect me to remember my past if you will not tell me about it?”

Childermass sighed in resignation. He would not tell Lascelles everything, but he could give him hints if it would satisfy some of his curiosity. “You were not a tyrant, no. And ‘bumbling idiot’ is definitely not the term I would use to describe you either, sir. You were…” he paused, trying very hard to find diplomatic words to say what he needed to say. “You were… at times, a bit… difficult.” 

“Difficult?” Lascelles sounded surprised. 

“Yes, difficult. Opinionated. Very used to getting your way I’d say,” Childermass shot a sideways glance at the man atop Brewer’s saddle to gauge the reaction of his words. Lascelles was frowning thoughtfully. 

“Was I kind? Was I pleasant to be around?” 

Childermass wondered if he knew any spells to make the earth open up and swallow him whole. “Not particularly sir. I cannot lie to you. You were… as I said sir, difficult. Much different than you are now.”

“Well that is a shame,” remarked Lascelles. “I’d have hoped to be well liked.”

“Some did like you,” Childermass supplied generously. He was certain somewhere, there were people who enjoyed Lascelles’ company. He did not know those people by name, but they must have existed. 

“I am getting the impression that they were rather thin upon the ground though,” responded Lascelles. Childermass nodded grudgingly. 

“Well then, I shall simply have to endeavor to be more likable, now that I have no memories of who I was. Do you think that would work Mr. Childermass?” He was looking down at Childermass with such earnestness that Childermass almost burst out laughing. As it was, he had to suppress a sudden fond smile that threatened to break across his face. 

“I think that is a good plan sir, yes,” he said. 

“ _You_ are certainly very kind and very nice,” Lascelles said. “You saved me from my enchantment and fed me and cleaned me up. Perhaps you can teach me how to be a better person.”

Childermass was by now slowly growing accustomed to hearing such things, so he did not stumble or splutter or gape at Lascelles this time. But he could not suppress the strange twisting feeling inside his chest that resulted from Lascelles’ words. 

“I am not all that kind or all that nice sir,” he said. “I would not have the skills to teach you much of anything. I’ve lived a rough sort of life.” 

“Oh,” Lascelles said. For a while they rode along in silence. The forest snapped and twittered and shook gently around them with all sorts of unseen wildlife. Childermass knew their food would only last so long. He could easily trap a rabbit or a squirrel and he knew a spell for putting birds in a trance so that a person could kill and eat them, but he was unsure how wise it would be to do so in the Fae lands. Some animals were sacred to the Fae folks and some were common and one never knew which was which. 

As if reading his mind, Lascelles spoke up. “I am quite hungry Mr. Childermass. Have you anything to eat?”

“Aye,” We should stop and make camp anyway,” Childermass replied. We cannot wander these roads forever, and there are a few things I will need fire to accomplish.”

They walked until they found another clearing in the forest and Childermass led Brewer to it. He helped Lascelles dismount and then set about gathering fresh twigs and fallen branches for that evening’s fire. What he assumed was the same stream from their last campsite babbled nearby. This would also be helpful for making tea and a quickly put together stew for their supper. 


	4. Chapter 4

Lascelles again stood around uselessly while Childermass set up camp, but this was not surprising, being that he hadn’t yet fully recovered from his ordeal. That, and he’d always been soft. A gentleman with too much money and too much free time for his own good. And one could hardly expect a gentleman to help a servant of lower birth to help set up camp.

When the fire was crackling, Childermass dragged a large, dry fallen log near the fire and invited Lascelles to have a seat. He appeared to have fully adopted the role of Lascelles’ valet and personal assistant, but it was a task made much easier to accomplish now that Lascelles had forgotten how to be such a horrible person. Once Lascelles was situated and had been given a handful of dried fruit to eat, Childermass went to the stream to fetch water for tea in his tin teapot. He said a quick spell to purify the water from fairy magic, and then returned to camp. He used half of the water to start a rough sort of stew in a small pot he got from his saddle bags and the other half was used to boil water for tea. 

Before long, he had made them both steaming cups of tea along with a bowl of stew from some herbs and wild vegetables he’d found about the camp and some of the dried meat. He shared his bowl and spoon with Lascelles being that he had only brought one on the journey. It was an intimate thing. A thing he’d never considered doing with this particular man. Passing a bowl and spoon back and forth, as if they were mates in the army. 

Lascelles thanked him, and remarked that the stew was good and the tea quite warming, and this too was incongruous and startling to Childermass. 

After supper, Childermass took out his pages of spells and did some thinking on how to remedy their situation. Perhaps they could kill the Lady with some magic weapon? Perhaps they could send for help by way of a magical messenger sent back to England? Or could they find help here in Faerie? This was something of a desperate situation. Maybe he could request help from a fairy servant? 

_Or you could give Lascelles back to the Lady and simply ride away_ , a small, unpleasant voice whispered to him from a dark part of his mind. _He has never done you anything but harm and has never wished you anything but ill will. And furthermore, he deserves it._

Childermass looked over at Lascelles, who at this moment was sitting with his elbows resting on the tops of his knees, chin propped upon the backs of his interlaced fingers, looking pensively into the flames. He sensed Childermass’ gaze upon him and turned his head and their eyes met. Lascelles smiled a small, shy smile. Childermass felt his face flush hot and looked away. 

_Well, so much for delivering him to the Lady and leaving_ , he thought to himself ruefully. The man was now an innocent. A blank slate of a person with no memory of his past crimes, and with a head empty of his past schemes and double crosses. He did not deserve to live out the rest of his life in such a horrible fashion, if indeed he ever had. 

But what was to be done if he managed to bring Lascelles back to England? What if he remained memoryless and confused? Should he stand trial then? Childermass had to admit to himself that the thought of this gentler, kinder man sitting next to him, rotting away in a jail cell or hanging at the end of a noose was also upsetting to him. 

Damn it all! When had he grown so soft on Henry Lascelles? He struggled to remember the feel of the man’s knife cutting into his cheek. To remember Lascelles’ wild, rage filled eyes as they stared into Childermass’. He tried to summon up memories of the threats, the slights, the snide insults, but the memories were growing less sharp and less evocative of any sort of real emotion. 

It was then, staring blindly down at pages of useless notes upon the subject of magic, that Childermass recalled the very first time he had seen Lascelles. It had been sometime in the early part of 1807, a decade ago now. He’d been called into the study at Hanover-Square to help Norrell with some task, and found that his master was entertaining company. A tall, red haired man in a green velvet jacket stood in front of Norrell’s desk with his back to Childermass. Childermass remembered being struck with a strong urge to see the man’s face, to see what sort of face could be attached to such a long, lanky frame, to such bright, dramatic hair.

Lacelles had turned to look at him, with those surprisingly dark eyes. Most men and women he knew with flame colored hair had blue eyes, or green, or a pale light brown. But Lascelles had eyes like black coffee, dark as Childermass’ own. And his skin was so very pale as to give him a slightly anemic look. He had a cruel thin mouth, pressed into a disapproving line above a sharp chin. The man’s elegant, long fingered hands had been clasped around some periodical that he was apparently discussing with Norrell before Childermass had entered the room. 

There had been a moment. Just a few seconds when Childermass had seen the man’s eyes light up with interest. He’d seen those dark eyes flick down the length of Childermass’ body and back up to settle upon his face, on his ragged hair, and he’d remembered thinking _does he like what he sees? Does he like men such as myself?_

Lascelles had turned away again to address Norrell, dismissing Childermass completely without a word. Not that he would have directly addressed a servant in any case. And then of course, Childermass had gotten to know him. He’d learned to associate Lascelles' beauty with haughtiness and snobbery, with trickery and vanity and ultimately with rage and violence. It was _that_ impression of him that was now slowly falling apart, and with it, Childermass’ carefully constructed walls around what he was _supposed_ to feel about the red haired man sitting by his side. 

He had no roadmap for this stranger next to him. This still snobbish, yet also somehow polite man. This complimentary, naive person with a haughty disposition, yes, but with no bile, no resentment behind it. Only curiosity and an innocent sort of vanity that was somehow charming to Childermass. 

“Are you making any headway with discovering a way out?” Lascelles asked, looking at Childermass with an expectant expression, one eyebrow raised higher than the other, and Childermass had a sudden mad urge to grab him and kiss him. 

He stood up quickly, dropping his papers in the process, then cursed and bent to pick them up. He needed distance, to put some space between him and Lascelles. Otherwise, he was not sure he would be able to resist touching the other man. He felt as if his body and mind were betraying him, causing urges toward Lascelles that would have made him shiver with revulsion only yesterday. 

He walked to the other side of the fire, breathing harder, face still flushing with heat and kept his back turned to Lascelles.

“Is something the matter?” Lascelles asked, his voice hesitant. 

“Nothing is the matter, I am only tired.” Childermass replied.

“Ah. Well that is understandable. We have had a disappointing day.” Lascelles remarked. 

Something inside Childermass snapped, and he whirled to face the man who sat by the fire. “Why do you persist in saying things like that?!” He demanded, knowing that Lascelles would not understand him, and yet not able to stop himself. “Why are you being so kind? Do you not remember that you hate me?!”

“Hate you?” Lascelles looked impossibly thin and pale. His dark eyes were startled and filled with confusion. “I do not hate you,” he said carefully. “In fact I...I like you very much.”

“But you did not sir!” Childermass took a couple of steps toward Lascelles, wishing to perhaps grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. “You did not like me at all! And I am sorry if I did not make this plain before, but we did _not_ have a good association you and I. In fact, we… we… loathed one another!” He could not stop the dangerous, inflammatory words that fell from his lips, even as he saw Lascelles’ face transform with surprised dismay. He’d stood up now, arms wrapped around himself as if to protect himself from Childermass’ angry accusations. 

“But how can that be?” Lascelles asked, a tremor making its way into his voice. “How can I loath you when I barely know you, when you have been so very kind to me? I cannot imagine such a thing.”

Childermass ground his teeth in frustration and stepped closer still. “You _will_ remember it eventually sir. It is part of who you are, this hate you held for me. You thought me the worst sort of person. You called me names, you strove to undermine me. You...you.. attacked me! You gave me this!” Childermass had stepped up quite close to Lascelles now, and he pointed at the silvery scar that ran down his own right cheek, almost connecting the corner of his eye with the corner of his mouth. 

Lascelles' eyes widened with horror. “No!” he shouted. “No I could not have done so! I have nothing for you in my heart but gratitude and affection. I hold no hatred for you at all!”

“Affection?” Childermass did grasp Lascelles by the shoulders then, peering fiercely into his face. “Affection? How can you say that you feel such things for me? You have known me for less than two day’s time! And yet, for a decade before this, you fought me and degraded me at every turn!”

Lascelles' eyes had filled up with tears that glimmered in the firelight. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “I am truly sorry. Please Mr. Childermass, forgive me. I have no memory of such things. I swear to you. I swear it.”  
  


He lifted a tentative hand and softly stroked the tip of one shaking finger down the line of Childermass’ scar. Childermass flinched away a little at Lascelles’ touch, but Lascelles was not dissuaded. His eyes followed his finger and they echoed with sadness and regret, as he traced that thin white line with a touch that was unbelievably gentle. His tears did spill out then and tumbled down his cheeks.

Childermass found that suddenly he could not breathe. His chest grew tight and his heart hammered away like a drum beneath his skin. Lascelles brought both of his hands up to frame Childermass’ face, so carefully, and with such compassion.

“I am sorry sir,” he repeated, voice thick with emotion, his gleaming, anguished eyes drifting down to Childermass lips. “I am so sorry.”

Childermass could not help himself. The yearning look Lascelles was giving him, the sadness mixing with hope in his dark eyes was too much. He pulled Lascelles to him and kissed his mouth with a sudden soft press of lips against lips.

Lascelles wrapped his arms around Childermass’ neck and keened into the kiss, a desperate sound, full of need. Childermass crushed Lascelles’ slender body against his and kissed the other man back with a hungry sort of urgency that was entirely new to him. 

Kissing Lascelles felt incredibly, undeniably _right_ . _Too_ right. As their mouths met and mingled, Childermass remembered that a long time ago, he had thought more than a little about doing this very thing with Lascelles. Back when he had thought Lascelles was not such a horrible person. Before all the slights and jabs that grew to characterize their relationship had set in. How very handsome he had once thought Lascelles, and how he had fantasized just a little bit about holding him down and making him pay for his snobbery in interesting ways. 

But the man he kissed now, who was oh so thin and who trembled just a little bit under Childermass’ mouth and hands, this man was different. Soft. malleable. This man made a surge of protectiveness and heady desire swell up inside Childermass. It was surprising and confusing and he wanted _more._

Lascelles' hands were moving gently over Childermass’ neck and jaw, and Childermass’ hands were at Lascelles’ low back, pulling him in closer, pulling them more tightly together. His head was swimming with the lovely smell of Lascelles’ freshly washed skin and the soft little noises he made as the kiss continued and deepened. 

_What in God’s name am I doing?_ His mind strove uselessly to remind him that he was fiercely embracing his worst enemy, that he was _kissing_ his enemy, and he ignored it. He was lost utterly in the soft, insistent pressure of Lascelles’ lips and tongue, lost in the feel of the man’s slender body and how it fit so easily inside the circle of his arms. Lascelles felt breakable and Childermass wanted to keep him safe, and that was disorienting and maddening and made something warm and gentle unfurl inside him. 

“I am certainly glad to see that your little lovers’ spat is over.” 

The haughty, somewhat amused voice, coming seemingly from thin air, made the two men jump apart guiltily. Just inside the orange circle of the firelight stood a fairy. It must be a fairy, for her hair was long and snow white, and yet her face was young and beautiful. Unlike any English woman either of them had ever seen, she wore a pair of what looked like leather trousers and a jacket of some soft material, both in different shades of bright green. Beside her sat a very large, white dog, which looked suspiciously like a wolf. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help but notice that the two of you seem quite lost. Also, your yelling at each other could be heard for miles. Not the best way to share a private moment.” She smiled slyly at them.

Childermass, who had stepped protectively in front of Lascelles without quite realizing it, now relaxed a little. The Faerie woman did not appear to wish them harm. And the dog, large and white with strange, ragged fur, sat placidly at her side. 

“Who are you?” asked Childermass. 

“I am Lady Ilethia. Princess of the Lands of Never More. And who might you be?” She said, raising a snowy eyebrow inquisitively at them.

“I am John Childermass, and this is my traveling companion, Mr. Henry Lascelles. We are indeed lost my lady.” He bowed, and pulled a gaping Lascelles into the bow with him. “Perhaps you can help us to find our way back to English soil?”

The fairy princess made a face. “Whyever would you want to go back to England? A frightfully stuffy and dull place. Here in Faery, you can frolick and drink and make love to your heart’s content and not be bothered by boring English laws.”

Childermass had to admit she made a compelling argument, but still. “We have much unfinished business back at home in our own lands. Or else we would gladly stay longer.” He had no wish to offend her hospitality. 

Lascelles opened his mouth, very likely in order to ask more questions about the frolicking and drinking and love making, but Childermass caught his eye and shook his head in a warning to stay silent. 

He turned back to the princess. “Your Highness, I fear that we may have run into some trouble with a denizen of your lands, the Lady of the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart? I have rescued my… companion from her enchantments and I fear she has cursed us to wander the lands of Faerie until I give him back.”

“What?!” Lascelles next to him, was suddenly gripping his arm and staring at him in horror. “You never told me any such thing Mr. Childermass! That you planned on returning me to that horrid place? With the bodies and the black creature that means to devour me whole!”

“Calm yourself Mr. Lascelles,” Childermass said, putting a hand over the one Lascelles was using to grip his forearm. “I have no intention of returning you to her enchantments. I only did not tell you because I wanted to think for a while on how we could avoid such a fate.” He tactfully did not mention that he had come to the decision to save Lascelles only a few moments before they’d kissed. 

Lascelles appeared to relax a little upon hearing Childermass’ reassurances, but he did not let go of Childermass’ arm. Childermass turned back to the Faerie princess. “Have you any idea who this Lady is, or how we may avoid her punishments?

Ilethia nodded. “Yes. She is a distant relative on my father’s side. There is a tragic tale behind her enchantments, and she is a creature whose heart has grown black with hate. I believe I can help you thwart her. But it will not be easy, as once she settles upon a Champion, she will not wish to give him up.”

“How is she defeated?” Childermass asked, feeling Lascelles’ grip on his arm tighten significantly in dread.

“It is a complicated thing, and not guaranteed to work,” she replied. “But I like you, you loud, kissing Englishmen. And since saving your lover from my horrid cousin sounds enjoyable, I shall help you in any way I can.”

Childermass opened his mouth to protest that this was not his lover, but then decided against it. Lascelles was certainly not saying anything to contradict her, and if it pleased her to think she was saving a pair of sweethearts from being separated, rather than a gaoler and his unsuspecting prisoner, then so be it. For that was who he was after all, was he not? He’d come here to bring Lascelles to justice hadn’t he? Not to traipse hand in hand with him through fields of violets and daisies. 

“We are eternally grateful for your offer my lady. What shall we do next?” he said instead. 

“I think you should come with me to my brugh. Then I may confer with my advisors. You may rest a little while and refresh yourselves there.”

Lascelles, unable apparently to keep his mouth closed for more than a few minutes at a stretch, spoke up then. “Thank you your highness. May I ask, is your..dog...is it tame? I believe that I may have a fear of dogs, and this one is very large.”

“I am not at all tame,” replied the large white animal at her side, and both Childermass and Lascelles jumped in surprise. “And I am not a dog, but a wolf. My name is Sylvan.”

Lascelles could do nothing but stare at him, so Childermass affected a short bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you sir,” he responded. “We apologize for mistaking you for a different species.”

The wolf nodded his head politely in response. It was shaping up to be a strange evening all around. 

The Fae princess and the strange wolf waited patiently for Childermass to clean up the camp, while Lascelles peppered the both of them with many questions, most of which they answered patiently. Childermass hoped his chatty traveling companion did not wear out their welcome before they reached the brugh and discovered a way to save him from the Lady’s curse. But also, he felt another unfamiliar warm sensation in his chest at Lascelles’ friendly inquiries and surprised exclamations when he heard some unusual answer from their hosts. He could not deny that he liked this new Lascelles very much. Too much. The very thought of bringing back the old Lascelles caused a cold flood of dread to pool in his gut. 

_And you, you idiot. You had to kiss him didn’t you? Now you are forcing down soft, warm feelings for a man you thought was a monster less than two days ago._ Childermass knew he had made a grave mistake. He had let himself be seduced by Lascelles’ softness, his new and startling kindness. He resolved then and there to not let it happen again. He would withdraw. Build the walls back up. It would pain him to do so, but that pain would be nothing in comparison to the anguish of falling for the man, only to be confronted with his true and horrid self at a later date.

_Falling?_ He shook his head to clear it and forced his attention back to the task at hand, feeling a stab of shame over how far he had let himself be taken in by Lascelle’s innocent charms. 

Soon, they were mounted up and following the princess and the wolf (not _her_ wolf apparently. Simply a companion.) through the woods. Childermass chose to ride behind Lascelles in the saddle, after being assured that it was not a very long journey, but he soon saw the folly in doing so. Lascelles, still weak from his enchantment, leaned back against Childermss’ chest, and promptly fell asleep. This forced Childermass to contend with the soft, loose warmth of the man’s body pressed against him, and the sweet smell of his hair, as Lascelles’ head lolled back to rest upon Childermass’ shoulder once again. 

His body reacted with embarrassing swiftness, and he was very glad that Lascelles was asleep, and not able to feel what his closeness and the rocking of the horse’s gait was accomplishing. Childermass breathed deeply and tried to think of horrible things in order to take his mind off of the maddenly attractive man who once again rested so trustingly in his arms. Had he not just resolved to keep his distance from Lascelles? To guard his heart? And here he was, battling thoughts of laying the man down somewhere and taking him apart in the most pleasurable of ways. 

_Damn_. He refocused his thoughts on things like corpses, refuse, infestations of roaches. Anything repulsive and desire-killing in order to make his now almost painfully hard cock remember where he was and who it was that was getting him so very aroused. 

Luckily, it was only three quarters of an hour before they arrived at the brugh of Never More. Lascelles stirred awake and Childermass, who had tried leaning his lower half away from the man’s sleepy body heat, with little success, was very relieved to dismount. He kept his great coat closed to hide his condition as he helped Lascelles down from Brewer’s saddle. 

Brewer was led off to some mysterious fairy stable, and Childermass was assured by both wolf and princess that he would be well cared for. Childermass made certain to grab the saddle bag with their food and a few provisions, not knowing what lay ahead.

“Welcome to my home!” Exclaimed the Princess Ilethia, as together they walked into the dark mouth of the fairy brugh. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: quite a bit of dub con in this chapter. But as usual, it's of the "I want you but don't think we should do this" childercelles variety. Not the "I don't want you" variety. Thought I should mention it.

The darkness inside the brugh lasted only for a few meters. Eventually, the pathway was lit by luminescent plants that unfurled themselves from the wall, opening and emitting a bluish green glow as the party passed. Small flecks of light floated from within the strange blooms and coalesced around Childermass and Lascelles, settling on their hair and clothing like bright snowflakes. 

“Do not be alarmed,” explained the wolf when he saw their obvious confusion. “It is only the brugh reaching out to see what you are made of, what your intentions are. It will not harm you.”

Childermass looked over at Lascelles, who was charmingly wreathed in glowing lights, and Lascelles grinned at him. He hastily looked away. 

“And if the brugh finds us to have ill intentions?” he asked, because that seemed a natural question to ask when one is being investigated by the magical flower lights of the Fae folk. Also, he was a little worried about the state of Henry Lascelles’ soul.

“It would simply not allow you to pass,” this time it was Ilethia who responded, and no other explanation was provided. 

They were in fact permitted to pass more deeply into the brugh, the fairy lights dispersed after a moment or two, and so the brugh either had quite loose opinions on who was and was not worthy to enter its halls, or Lascelles truly was a new person. Childermass wondered at this as they walked on. 

Soon, the dimly lit passageway down which they walked opened up into a large hall, bustling with fairy folk. Some of them stopped in their tasks, with baskets of fruit or bags of what looked like washing, to inspect them for a moment, but mostly, Childermass and Lascelles were ignored. 

“I will take you to your room, and then confer with my court,” said Ilethia as she began to lead down a dizzying array of halls and corridors, draped in colorful tapestries. The wolf peeled away soon afterward and disappeared down a side hallway without a word. 

A short time later, the princess stopped in front of a tall, ornate door that appeared to be made of oak or some other sturdy wood. It was carved all over with leaves and flowers, and reminded Childermass of the beautiful shelves of Norrell’s library at Hurtfew Abbey. 

“You may rest here for the time being. It may be several hours until I can return, so please, avail yourselves of my hospitality in the meantime. Bathe, eat, sleep… or… do as you wish with one another until I return.” This last suggestion was accompanied by a knowing grin, and Childermass felt his face flush with heat at her obvious implication. 

She turned then and left them, and Childermass pushed the door open and entered with Lascelles following close behind. The room was beautifully appointed, with not one, but (thankfully) two, good sized beds and an assortment of divans and chairs of every imaginable kind, all upholstered in silk. Thick, soft carpets in the dark wine reds and rusted oranges of fallen leaves in autumn covered the floors. It was the room of a king, and the mere fact that it had been given to two strange Englishman to use as temporary quarters spoke volumes about the wealth and size of the brugh they had entered, to say nothing of the kingdom as a whole. 

Emma Pole and Arabella Strange had told Childermass (along with Segundus and Honeyfoot) of the sorry state of the brugh commanded by the fairy gentleman who had enslaved them, along with Stephen Black for so many years. So it appeared that some fairy dwellings were better than others. 

Lascelles wandered into the room as if in a trance. “This place is quite astounding!” he exclaimed, turning in a slow circle, his wide eyes taking in all of the details of the drapes, the gold candlesticks, the large gilded mirror against one wall, and the portraits of beautiful men and women, all with hair the color of snow that were hung at regular intervals around the room. 

“That it is,” replied Childermass, also perusing the sumptuous room with his eyes. “I never thought I’d ever see a place like this in my life.”

“This seems strangely familiar to me,” Lascelles remarked, and Childermass felt his stomach clench with nerves. 

“That is likely because you spent quite a bit of time in the company of wealthy Londoners,” he said. “Before your enchantment that is,” he added, unnecessarily. 

“Is that so?” Lascelles remarked absently as he stared up at the portrait of a beautiful, cold eyed fairy prince above the fireplace. “That must be why then.”

He did not seem to be interested in more than what Childermass told him. And again, Childermass felt that strange difference in reality from what he remembered of Lascelles and the man who stood before him. The pale man in homespun clothing, running his fingers reverently over the ornate carvings of small beasts that adorned the mantle above the fireplace. The man who did not seem to care that his clothes were plain or that he traveled with a servant. He seemed to be at peace with not knowing quite where he was, with not being able to manipulate the situation toward his own gain. Old Lascelles would have found these things intolerable.

Childermass did not want to grow too accustomed to this new version of Lascelles. He was growing to like this man far more than he’d expected, far more than he should. 

He watched Lascelles silently for a moment as the red haired man wandered around their room in a trance. The only thing Lascelles ever remembered experiencing had been sleeping rough, beside a fire, or riding atop a horse, and so seeing all of this stunning wealth was likely quite surprising to him. 

Childermass for one was very much looking forward to getting some sleep in a real bed. He had no doubt that the fairy people could feed them some real food as well, and he was certain that he could perform some magic to render it inert from any enchanting properties. Hopefully something simple could be provided. Rather than pheasant hearts in wine sauce or some such fairy finery that was always a touch unsettling, if his limited knowledge of fairy societies served. 

He was distracted by his musings by Lascelles walking over to him, a shy look upon his face. “Mr. Childermass. Before, in the forest, before the princess arrived, when we were-”

“Look Mr. Lascelles,” Childermass had no intention of delving into the subject of their kiss at this moment. “I am tired and hungry and need to wash up. I suggest you do the same and we can have some food.”

Lascelles looked disappointed, but he nodded. “Very well. I think I should like to discover what is behind that door over there.” He pointed to a door Childermass had not noticed, in the wall next to a large painting of a fairy woman, sitting upon a red velvet divan. 

Childermass walked over and opened it up and almost gasped in surprise when he saw a gleaming room on the other side. The walls and floor and ceiling all appeared to be made of white marble, and there was the largest wash basin he had ever seen in the center of the room. Along with a separate standing basin. He stepped over to the bath, which was large enough to allow a man to submerge himself entirely, and saw that a thick bar of some fragrant soap, and a small stack of folded towels sat on a little table next to it. “Oh my,” he exclaimed softly. “I have never in all my life seen a thing such as this.”

“I wish I could say the same, but to own the truth, I do not remember,” said Lascelles at his elbow. 

“You may wash first if you wish,” Childermass said, turning to leave. Lascelles reached out to stop him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“You may need to stay and help me undress,” he said, giving Childermass a smouldering look that took his breath away. “For I am still very weak, sir.”

Childermass pushed away the flurry of enticing imaginings that resulted from Lascelles’ obvious proposition and gently pulled his shoulder from the other man’s grasp. “You are well enough now I think to bathe yourself.”

Lascelles pouted. “And what if I want you to undress me anyway?” he asked, giving up all pretense of needing assistance. 

“Mr. Lascelles,” Childermass sighed. He did not wish to hurt Lascelles’ feelings, but he could not continue playing at the edges of this thing between them. He’d promised himself that he would keep his distance, for both their sakes. “I did not mean to kiss you by the fire. I should not have. I came here to free you from your enchantment and bring you back to English soil. Not to indulge in...in...diversions of the flesh. And whatsmore,” he added as he could see Lascelles’ face falling into a sad expression, “you are still weak and have no memories of your life from before. You are compromised in mind and body. It would not be right.”

Lascelles stepped closer to him, and Childermass could not help his sharp intake of breath at the man’s nearness. “I may not remember my life from before, nor who I am,” he said, his eyes dropping to Childermass’ lips, his hand sliding from Childermass’ shoulder to cradle the back of his neck with soft fingers. “But I do know that I desire you very much.”

Childermass, through a supreme act of will, pulled himself away from Lascelles’ soft touches and soft looks. “I will be in the other room. I will bathe when you are finished,” he said, hating that he could not simply sink into Lascelles’ welcome embrace and do all the things he longed to do with the other man. But, indulging in what he truly wanted would only make their separation later, once Lascelles’ memories returned and his horrid personality reinstated itself, all the more difficult and painful. 

Lascelles frowned, but did not respond and did not try to detain Childermass as he turned and left. 

Childermass went out of the gleaming wash room and shut the door behind him. In order to distract himself from thoughts of a probably naked Lascelles, lathering himself up with soap on the other side of the washroom door, he decided to investigate their bedroom. He opened a tall, standing wardrobe to discover a set of new clothing in fine materials hung inside upon hooks. Two pairs of breeches, one black, one brown, made of what felt like wool, but a wool that was not the least bit scratchy, hung next to two cream silk shirts and two new waistcoats (one a dark green, the other a dark blue). Both waistcoats sported a row of silver buttons down the front. He turned to the bed and noticed two pairs of new silk stockings, along with two snow white night dresses were laid out atop the coverlet of each bed and wondered that he had not noticed them before. Perhaps silent fairy servants had entered and delivered these fine clothes while he and Lascelles had been investigating the bath? Who knew what sorts of things fairy magic could accomplish? 

A knock at the door distracted him from his wonders over the new clothing, and he went to open it. What he assumed was a fairy servant stood on the other side. He carried a tray with a silver cover. “Her highness Ilethia requested that some food be brought to your rooms,” he said with a small bow. 

Childermass thanked the man and set the tray down upon a small table in the corner. He lifted the lid and was pleased to see what looked like two loves of bread and two bowls of some clear broth, along with an assortment of fruit. Some of the fruit he recognized. Apples and pears. Others he could not name. All of them looked delicious. He waved a hand over the tray and said a few words to clear any fairy enchantments from the food and prayed that the spell would work. He doubted though that Ilithia would bring them all this way and provide for them such sumptuous accommodations if she meant to poison or imprison them. Still, fairies were known for being capricious and it was best to act with caution.

The door to the washroom opened and Lascelles emerged, his hair wet and disarrayed, holding a towel closed around his waist. Childermass averted his eyes, but not before the sight of Lascelles’ long ivory torso had etched itself indelibly into his brain. “We have been provided food that is safe to eat and new clothing,” he blurted out, before grabbing his nightdress and rushing past Lascelles and into the washroom. 

The bath was refilling itself from a silver spigot as he approached, doubtless through some form of magic. The water was steaming hot and smelled of roses and lilac. Childermass made sure the door was securely shut, then gratefully stripped off his travel stained clothing and sank into the hot bath with a sigh of relief. 

Once he had washed himself thoroughly, he dried himself off with a large towel and put on the nightdress. He went back into the bedroom and was pleased to see that Lascelles was the other nightdress, and that his bowl of broth, his loaf of bread and half of the fruit had disappeared. The man was too thin and needed to eat and rest still. 

Childermass picked up his loaf of bread and tore off a chunk and set about eating his broth. 

“The food was quite good,’ remarked Lascelles. He was sitting on one of the two beds, swinging his feet and looking far too innocent. 

“That it is,” replied Childermass before taking another spoonful of broth. It tasted light and salty, with a hint of basil was it? He did not know from what animal the broth had been derived and did not particularly wish to know either. “I am glad to see you ate all of your half,” he said. 

Lascelles grinned. It was a thing Childermass was growing accustomed to seeing. He hated how much he liked it. 

“Yes,” the man replied. “I find that I am always hungry, as if I could eat a horse. It appears my body is waking up again after my long enchantment.” This last sentence was delivered along with a significant look that Childermass tactfully ignored. 

_How much longer am I to endure this torture?_ He wondered. Not only had he not lain with a man in many months (and even then, only briefly for a single evening), but he found that he was drawn more and more to Lascelles through the man’s kindness and pleasantness and his flirtatious words and tousled red hair. It would be far easier if Lascelles would respect his wishes and strive (as Childermass) was doing, to keep their connection of a platonic nature, but the man seemed hell bent on attempting to be seductive. And this made Childermass’ job all that much more difficult. 

He thought briefly of escaping to the warren of winding passages outside of their rooms to find the princess Ilethia and demand that they have separate bedchambers. But he also knew it was too late for that, and he would never find his way anyway. The hallways they had come down to get to this bedchamber were all confusing and similar in appearance. 

After he finished eating, he went to the other bed, the one closest to the door, which he preferred anyway, and got under the covers. “I am going to sleep now. I would not chance leaving this room in the night, as you will never find your way anywhere,” he warned as he settled under the covers. He rolled over so that his back was to Lascelles and closed his eyes, and tried to ignore the fact that Lascelles was still sitting on the other bed, wearing only a night dress. 

A few moments later, he heard the sound of bare feet against the carpeted floors and Lascelles poked him gently on the shoulder. He rolled over and looked up into the man’s face. 

“Mr. Childermass. I’ve found that I am afraid to sleep alone,” Lascelles said, though he did not look at all frightened. His face was instead full of heated longing. “Might I join you in your bed, sir?”

Childermass felt his resolve weakening, and he tried to hold onto it with desperate denials. “No, you may not,” he responded, a bit too gruffly perhaps. “You have designs on more than just sleeping, and that cannot be allowed sir. As I said before. You are confused. You do not remember who you are. You will regret your actions if you join me in this bed.”

“I am certain that I will not,” Lascelles replied, looking determined and ardent in equal measure. “You are the only friend I have. The only person I know. And despite what you said about us hating one another, I assure you, I feel no such emotions now sir. I only wish to be close to you. How can that hurt either one of us?” As he said this, he lifted the sheets and blankets and climbed in beside Childermass, directly disobeying Childermass’ wishes. 

This was a thing the old Lascelles would most assuredly have done. Pursued an interest with relentless fervor until he got what he wanted. Only previously it had been social capital and money, not desires of the flesh. Or at least that is what Childermasss had assumed.

“Stop. Mr. Lascelles,” Childermass was close to begging now, even though his cock was already at half mast from the very thought of Lascelles’ nearness. When Lascelles did not listen and instead moved closer to him beneath the covers, Childermass rolled away again, giving the man his back. “I must ask you again to leave my bed," he said through gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes closed and trying not to let the lilac scent of Lascelles’ hair make his heart beat any faster than it already was. 

“Is being close to me so very difficult for you? Am I repulsive to you?” Lascelles sounded genuinely hurt. “I know that we were not...particular friends before my enchantment, but certainly it was not so horrible that the very sight of me upsets you?” The man thankfully hadn’t touched Childermass yet.

Childermass rolled to face him. “You do not understand,” he whispered roughly. “It is not so simple! We were enemies of the worst sort! You would surely have killed me where I stood.” He took a deep breath as he watched Lascelles face grow pensive beneath the lust. “It is not that I don’t desire you,” he said, meaning to placate the man. “I desire you plenty. I am just not accustomed to these feelings, and I do not think it wise to indulge-”

He could not continue because Lascelles, hearing that Childermass desired him and apparently deciding that this was enough evidence that his advances were wanted, had lunged forward and kissed him. Fighting the resulting bloom of lust in the pit of his stomach, Childermass pressed the man away from him with hands upon his shoulders. “Please Mr. Lascelles!” he felt his body crying out for more touch, more kisses, even as his conscience fought to push Lascelles away. 

“I want you very much,” Lascelles whispered against his lips, leaning in close. “You are so very handsome, so very kind. You have done nothing but help me, protect me, shelter me. Let me repay you. Let me show you how much your help means to me.” His hand was now stroking Childermass’ waist above his nightdress, and he had moved closer so that their bodies pressed together, belly to belly. “I can feel how much you want me as well,” he whispered. “Please Mr. Childermass. Let me thank you for all you’ve done.” 

Childermass moaned low and tried one final time to push Lascelles from him, though there was far less strength in it. He was overcome with lust, and his rational thoughts were melting away, along with his resolve to keep Lascelles at arm’s length. Lascelles had begun to deliver soft little kisses to Childermass cheeks and forehead and had wrapped an arm around his waist and Childermass felt his last shred of resistance evaporate under the hot pull of the other man’s lips and hands. 

“Oh Christ,” he moaned and captured Lascelles’ mouth with his own. Lascelles made an eager sound, like a sigh of relief. He rolled them both over until he was atop Childermass, his body warm and soft and his modest weight pressing Childermass into the mattress beneath him. It felt far better than any pleasurable thing Childermass could ever remember. Lascelles kissed Childermass urgently and began rolling his hips, grinding them together, making Childermass groan into the kiss. Childermass thrust up beneath him and grabbed his arse, pulling Lascelles down and against him even more firmly as another ragged noise escaped him. 

“Mr. Lascelles, Mr. Lascelles...we should not…” he broke their kiss and tried to protest, knowing that it was pointless now, but having a distant awareness of the quite possibly horrible consequences if he did not stop this. 

Lascelles was whispering soft praises and promises into Childermass’ ear as he kept moving them together. “My darling,” he whispered. “Oh my hero, my protector. Let me show you how much I’ve longed to be with you.” 

Childermass tried to protest, to insist that the man stop his ridiculous declarations. He was silenced once more by Lascelles' ardent kisses. Finding that he could fight no longer, he succumbed completely. With a low growl he rolled them over until their positions were reversed and he was pressing the other man into the bed beneath them. He snuck a hand under Lascelles’ nightdress to stroke his upper thigh. “Jesus. You feel good,” he whispered. He grabbed Lascelles’ hip and drove the fingers of his other hand into the man’s silky red hair. 

Lascelles’ only reply was a low moan as he arched up against Childermass from below. Childermass pulled up the man’s nightdress, then struggled onto his elbow to raise his own so that he could feel their skin and warmth and hardness press against each other. The sensation made him gasp into the heated space between their mouths. Childermass quickly pulled Lascelles’ night dress off completely followed by his own, then settled atop him again, his head swimming with the other man’s feel and smell. 

His brain tried desperately to warn him, to stop him. He tried to recall images of Lascelles’ sneering face, his cruel haughtiness, but his body refused to care. Lascelles writhed and whimpered beneath him, overcome with lust, soft and hot and wanting. Childermass hooked a hand under the back of Lascelles’ knee and pulled his leg up to wrap it around him, changing the angle and causing Lascelles to gasp and throw his head back against the pillow. Now the heel of the foot that was wrapped around Childermass was pressing down into Childermass’ arse, pressing them together more firmly. Lascelles embraced Childermass and held him tightly, possessively in his arms, and that incongruous feeling of rightness returned, and Childermass again pushed it aside in his mind. 

Their movements grew faster and less coordinated. They rocked awkwardly together, striving for a few moments before finding a rhythm. Childermass lavished kisses upon every part of Lascelles he could reach. The man’s lips, and his long, white neck, the top of his chest. Lascelles said Childermass’ name breathlessly, like an incantation, over and over. _John, John, John_. All was heat and urgency, and then Lascelles stiffened, his mouth gaping, his eyes fluttering closed. “Oh! Oh!” he gasped out as he reached his climax and shuddered and moaned beneath Childermass. The sight and sound of him coming apart pushed Childermass to the edge, and he groaned out his own climax into the crook of Lascelles' neck as he convulsed and spilled between the hot friction of their bellies. 

They lay together for a long time after, letting their breath and heart beats slow, kissing lazily, stroking each other’s face and hair. Childermass knew well that these sorts of things were reserved for lovers. For those (very few) he brought to his bed for whom he had strong and affectionate feelings. He could not help the tender warmth inside his chest for the man beneath him, and he was so very exhausted from fighting it. 

Soon, when the mess they’d made became too obvious to ignore any longer, Childermass clambered from the bed to the miraculous wash room and returned with a wetted towel to clean them up. He settled back into the bed and Lascelles immediately wrapped long, white, arms and legs around him and nuzzled his face into Childermass’ neck. Childermass had completely lost the strength to fend him off, and what was worse, he didn’t want to. He reveled in the feel of Lascelles’ warmth, his smell, the softness of his skin. He drove his fingers into Lascelles’ sweat damp hair to scratch gently at his scalp and the other man hummed in contentment. 

They drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms. 

Childermass was woken sometime later by Lascelles’ kissing his neck and moving against him in a manner that clearly betrayed his renewed interest. He turned his head and lifted Lasclles lips to his own and kissed him long and deep. Then, Lascelles was placing soft, wet kisses down the length of his chest and over his belly, then taking Childermass’ cock into his hot hot mouth, swallowing him down almost completely. Childermass cried out softly and arched up into that heat and heard a satisfied grunt from Lascelles. Before long, Lascelles’ oral attentions had him trembling on the verge of his climax, then barrelling over the edge in a gut wrenching rush of intense pleasure. “Fuck, fuck, Henry,” he gasped as he pulsed and shot into Lascelles’ mouth. 

Afterwards, Lascelles climbed up beside him and lay next to him on his back. Childermass kissed his neck and whispered heated encouragements in his ear and stroked his thighs and belly while Lascelles stroked himself to a shuddering climax in Childermass’ arms. Childermass didn’t so much fall asleep as lose consciousness afterward, surrounded by warmth, feeling the thundering of Lascelles’ heartbeat next to his.


	6. Chapter 6

Childermass woke momentarily confused. He was in a soft, warm bed, not sleeping on the ground beside a fire, but it was clear that he was not at Starecross Hall, for there was someone in the bed with him. He did not bring lovers to bed when he visited Segundus’ School for Magicians. Only when he traveled to other towns, or when he met someone in an inn while on a journey. 

The man next to him moaned softly and stirred in his sleep, tightening his arms around Childermass, and then he remembered. It was Henry Lascelles. He had slept the whole night, wrapped up in Lascelles’ arms. His first instinct was to attempt to get up and leave, but he was far far too warm and comfortable for that, and felt the urge die as he luxuriated in the heat of their bodies pressing together. 

He turned his head and was greeted by the sight of Lascelles’ gaping and gently snoring mouth and closed eyes. He smiled. He could not help it. Lascelles slept in the most unaware, ridiculous fashion possible. He was even drooling a little onto Childermass’ shoulder. 

Some happy minutes later, Childermass realized that he needed to make his morning water. He tried to extricate himself from Lascelles embrace, only to have the man frown and pull him closer. “Mmmm,” Lascelles hummed, starting slowly to join the land of the waking, shutting his mouth and squeezing his eyes closed against the light from the window.  
  


“You need to let me leave the bed,” Childermass said gently, and Lascelles burrowed his face into Childermass neck and made another unhappy noise that sounded suspiciously like the word ‘no’. 

Childermass settled back with a sigh. He supposed he could lie still a little longer. And besides, how many long months had it been since he’d had the opportunity to be held this way, so warmly, so possessively, and in such a fine bed too. 

He was surprised that his resistance and worry from the night before had largely evaporated, leaving in its wake a light sort of joyful feeling. Resisting Lascelles' advances had been a struggle. Now that he had decided to give in, the struggle was over and he allowed himself to simply be with the man how he wanted. It felt incredibly good and easy. He stroked Lascelles’ hair with gentle fingertips and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Wake up,” he whispered softly. “Wake up you spoilt git.”

Lascelles pulled his face out from Childermass' neck to glare blearily at him. “M’hungry,” he mumbled. 

“Well then, unhand me and I will see what we can do about finding some food for your highness,” Childermass was growing used to Lascelles’ funny way of being demanding and sweet in equal measure. He wondered if there had ever been a point in the old Lascelles’ life when he’d truly behaved this way. Perhaps when he was a very young boy?

Lascelles did finally release him, rolling over and pulling virtually all of the covers with him in the process. Childermass made his way to the wash room and relieved himself, in what was an ingenious porcelain contraption that took his urine away in a rush of swirling water. He washed at the basin with soap and miraculously hot water and returned to the other room to see Lascelles sitting up in bed, his hair pointing up in several different directions. 

“Come back to bed,” the man said, patting the mattress beside him. “I have many other ways of showing you my gratitude that have been left unexpressed.”

Childermass shook his head with a slight smile. “We must get up and go find our hostess,” he said, reminding Lascelles of their mission as he looked around for his clothing. The man frowned but swung his long legs out of bed. He stood then and stretched, arms over his head, showing Childermass the entire length of his creamy skinned body and copper hair along with a very impressive morning erection. 

Childermass suddenly decided that perhaps they did not have to get up just yet. He stepped up close to Lascelles, who was just coming out of his stretch, and the man’s arms fell conveniently around his shoulders. “You have managed to convince me to stay in bed a little longer,” he murmured before kissing Lascelles’ wicked smile. 

They fell back into the bed, kissing passionately. Lascelles snuck a hand between them and stroked Childermass to full stiffness and Childermass did the same for him, stroking Lascelles’ lovely thick cock in his hand. They lay on their sides, facing one another, stroking each other, kissing and looking into each other’s eyes. Soon, they were crying out into each other's mouths as first Lascelles and then Childermass fell over the edge into an astoundingly strong climax. 

Childermass lay in the aftermath, the fingers of his clean hand stroking Lascelles’ neck and shoulder, luxuriating in the feeling of Lascelles kissing his chest and neck and cheek. He wondered at how different he was feeling, at the warmth and affection in his heart for Lascelles. How things had changed so much in only one day. After a decade of hating the man in his bed, he now feared that he liked Henry Lascelles a bit too much. 

After a brief rest, they went back to the washroom, and with much urging from Lascelles, they both got into the large tub and took a bath together. This was a luxury Childermass had never known for himself, let alone sharing it with a lover. He spent an enjoyable several minutes soaping Lascelles’ chest and belly and other parts of him beneath the steaming water as he in turn was washed just as thoroughly by Lascelles’ gentle hands. They almost did not make it out of the tub, because Lascelles leaned forward and began kissing Childermass, and moving his soapy hands over Childermass body in a highly suggestive manner. But Childermass fought him off with a grin and climbed out before things could grow too heated. The tub magically refilled itself once they left it and they were able to rinse themselves off before drying themselves and dressing in their new clothes. 

He realized he could probably stay in this luxurious set of rooms and make love to Lascelles all day. He also knew that they had to find some way for them both to escape the lands of Faerie. 

And what then? He could not now bring Lascelles to the authorities. Not without his memories of his crimes. He truly believed that the man could not remember his life before his enchantment, nor (thankfully) anything that happened while he had been enslaved by the Lady of the Castle, then he could not sentence him to death, or to a lifetime in a dank and moldy cell. The very thought of it made him feel a surge of nauseous dread in the pit of his stomach. 

Maybe he could find Lascelles an out-of-the-way place to live once they escaped? Find him a small village to stay in. Some sort of vocation to keep him employed and occupied? It did not seem likely, but it was better than the gallows. 

Perhaps, and this was an unlikely outcome, he could bring him back to Starecross. He could explain to Segundus and Honeyfoot, both kind and understanding men, that he’d found Lascelles with no memories of his crimes. They would soon see how different the new Henry Lascelles was. Perhaps they could shelter and hide him from the prying eyes of London and the authorities that would arrest him if they saw him. 

He swiftly put such thoughts from his mind for the time being as they prepared to leave their chambers. Perhaps the fairy Princess could enlighten them and provide some new information. 

Once they were dressed, they left the room and endeavored to find the princess Ilethia. Luckily, a fairy servant happened by after they’d only walked down a few twisting hallways, and she was able to lead them to the throne room. 

“Good morning my kissing Englishmen!” exclaimed Ilethia. She sat upon a massive throne that looked to be made of a large, ornately carved tree trunk, and was wearing a fetching gown of deep, blood red. Next to her sat a fairy gentleman, the prince perhaps? He looked similar to Ilethia in that they shared the same colouring, but it was difficult to discern if he were her husband or her brother. He was draped in dark green robes and also sat upon an almost identical wooden throne. Both wore a simple silver circlet upon their brows.

“Good morning,” Childermass replied, bowing. Lascelles took his lead and bowed as well. 

“I trust you found your accommodations acceptable?” Ilethia asked with a cocked eyebrow. 

“Yes!” Exclaimed Lascelles happily. “I had not seen such a beautifully appointed room in all my life.” He paused then. “Or rather, I have no memories of my life before two days ago, but I am almost certain I’d never encountered such a room before.” He smiled awkwardly at her, and Childermass suppressed his own fond smile. 

“Ah yes. About your memory loss. I have spoken with our Council of Elders, and with my husband, prince Arthain,” she nodded her head at the fairy gentleman next to her who bowed his head slightly at them. Ilethia turned to Childermass. “We have seen a spell of forgetfulness upon your friend, and it looks to be a very old and powerful one indeed. Was it you who cast it?” She asked Childermass. 

“Yes, it was me,” Childermass responded, then cursed to himself as he heard Lascelles' shocked intake of breath. _Of course_ , in all the rush and madness of their situation, he had neglected to tell Lascelles that a large part of why he could not remember his past was a forgetfulness spell that Childermass himself had cast. And that spell had apparently done a far better job than intended. It had simply been easier to let Lascelles think that the trauma of his enchantment had temporarily erased his memories. 

“You… you took my memories away?” Lascelles had turned and was staring at Childermass with a shocked expression upon his face. 

“Mr. Lascelles, please, I will explain everything, but we must listen to what the Lady says.”

“It was _you_?” Lascelles was not at all listening. His face had gone pale and his expression was one of confusion. He had his hands on his hips and was staring at Childermass as if could not believe his ears. Childermass felt an uncomfortable twist of regret lance through his chest at the sight of it. 

“I did it for your own good, and it was a mistake,” he explained, recognizing that his voice had an edge of desperation to it. A pleading tone. “It was only supposed to suppress your memories for perhaps a few hours. And considering the things you had seen… not to mention the way you felt about me. I could not risk you becoming violent or being overcome with grief or fear. I had to do it!”

“But you did not see fit to tell me?!” Lascelles’ face had gone from shock to anger. A hurt sort of anger. His mouth had become thin and white, his copper brows drawn together over a dark glare, and Childermass hated that he was the catalyst of that betrayed look. “You… you took me to bed, knowing that you were the one who caused my memories to be erased?”

“Oh come now, Mr. Lascelles. If you will recall, I was attempting to fight you off only last night. I made it quite clear that going to bed with me was not a wise decision.”

The fairy Prince and Princess were looking back and forth between them, and Childermass was very aware that he and Lascelles were causing a scene. But Lascelles had never been subtle about showing his displeasure, with or without his memories. 

“I..I…” Lascelles spluttered, seeming to have run out of retorts. Then a determined look stole over his face and he turned on his heel and marched out of the throne room.

“Wait!” Childermass called after him, turning to follow him, but he was waylaid by the fairy Prince. 

“Let him go,” Arthain said in a gentle voice. “He shan't get far, and will be easy to find again. If you wish to find him that is,” he added with a smirk. 

Childermass reluctantly watched as Lascelles stormed out of the throne room and into the hallway and disappeared. He hoped he wouldn’t get himself into too much trouble. He hoped he’d be able to put things right. He turned back to the royal couple. “The spell your highnesses?” He prompted them, trying to calm his heartbeat and focus himself again. “You said it was older than you expected?”

“Far older,” said Ilethia. “And it was not an English spell, but a Fae one. A spell that was rumored to have been used centuries ago to purify the hearts and minds of Fae folk who had been corrupted by evil influences or who had been captured by enemy kingdoms and turned against their own people.”

“It is a spell of purification,” continued Arthain. “And it will effectively remove any parts of an individual’s mind that were corrupted by greed or madness, rage or murderous inclinations, but will leave all the rest intact. The person will still remember how to speak, how to eat, how to bathe, how to dress themselves and what's more, will remember the important parts of the world around them…. The common sorts of knowledge of who rules their kingdom, what everyday objects are, how simple spells are cast, and will have an affinity for some of the things they enjoyed before the memory loss. Only their personal memories, along with the parts of themselves that have been corrupted will be excised.”

“Oh, I see,” Childermass could not think of anything more articulate to say, but his mind was racing with many questions. “Is it permanent?” he asked. 

“Yes, it is indeed,” replied Ilethia, and Childermass felt a flash of wild hope spark inside him. 

“Unfortunately, the friend you knew before you cast the spell is gone,” added Arthain. 

“That is not actually as much of a tragedy as you’d think,” Childermass said. “He was a horrid person before the spell, and very much improved now. I would have reversed it if possible, and if that is what he truly wanted, but I am very much relieved that it cannot be reversed.”

“Where did you learn of it?” Ilitia asked. “We know of it here in Faerie, but we do not use it often any longer. It takes so much of a person’s true self away that we find it far easier to simply execute them.”

Childermass ignored that particular statement and did not bring up the fact that he had intended to deliver Lascelles to just such a fate before his memories had been erased. “I found it among my master’s things,” he replied. “He was a collector of all things magical and had a vast library of magical books. He had either forgotten this spell or hidden it away, but I managed to glimpse it for a few moments many years ago and that was long enough to memorize it. It had a strange name in a language I did not recognize.”

Arthain said a few words in what was clearly a fairy language and Childermass nodded. “Yes! That is it!”

“Loosely translated, it means ‘Pure of Heart.’” 

How was Childermass to explain this to Lascelles? The man was already upset at Childermass for removing his memories in the first place. How much more upset would he be to learn the reasons why? Would he be grateful for the loss of who he’d once been? Or, and this made Childermass’ stomach go queasy, would he wish to have his old personality back?

“How shall we prevent the Lady of the Castle from reclaiming him?” Childermass asked. He would talk to Lascelles and hope for the best. But even if the man never forgave him, never wanted to see him again, he would not allow Lascelles to be taken in by that terrible enchantment once more. Not if there was any way to stop it. “Was she always this way?” The Princess had mentioned that this was a distant relative. How was one related to a ghoul such as the Lady of the Castle he wondered.

“Ah, yes, my cousin,” replied Ilethia. “No, she was not always the creature you saw her as. She was once a great beauty. Her mother and father kept her locked away in that tower so that no man could court her. I think they were possessive of her in a way that was unclean and wanted to keep her to themselves to be honest.”

“In any case, she fell madly in love with the youth who was meant to guard her from potential suitors, and they had a secretive and passionate affair, during which he would scale the walls of the tower in the night and make love to her. Her mother and father found out and had him killed. They cut out his eyes and his heart and had him hung up in a tree outside her tower window. 

“The sight of her lover, hanging there dead, day after day drove her slowly mad. After that, the rumors say that she found some dark magic and murdered her parents, though there is not proof of this enough to bring to a fairy court. She stayed there year after year, decade after decade, century after century, in that tower, enslaving any man who entered her castle grounds, mindlessly searching for her lost Champion. Though he never did return, she did not seem to care. She is quite mad as I’ve said.”

Childermass shuddered at hearing this gruesome tale. “And how did she become a wraith? A creature? You said she was once a great beauty. When I encountered her, she appeared little more than a shadow in the shape of a person.”

“Yes,” said Ilethia with a small frown. “She acquired some sort of dark magic. I am certain it is in the form of an amulet or a book of some kind. Dark magic takes its toll. It saps the personhood from its user and turns them into something truly wicked. I fear there is nothing left of her but longing and rage. And this brings me to how she may be defeated. You and your friend must enter her castle without her knowledge and steal this dark magic amulet, or this book or whatever object she uses to help her enchant people and cast spells, and you must destroy it.”

Childermass felt dread pool in the pit of his stomach. “That sounds like a difficult task,” he said, but in truth, it sounded impossible. “And how do you propose we enter her lands or her castle without her knowing about it?”

“Ah, that is where we may help you,” this from Arthain. “We can provide you with a few spells that will help you avoid detection, as well as cloaks that will hide you from her vision. Her tower is not locked, nor guarded, for all who come there are immediately enchanted by her, and she fears no man. And we other fairy folk do not wish to go anywhere near her, so she will not be expecting you. Nor will she have taken very many precautions against invaders to her castle. Simply open the door and ascend the staircase to her room at the top. Other than that, we can give you no further advice. If all else fails, I would recommend leaving your friend with her, as he seems more trouble than he is worth, and you will never leave these lands otherwise.”

Ilethia frowned at her husband. “Or, you may come back here if you wish… if you survive your mission but do not succeed, that is. You may stay with us as long as you like.” 

Prince Arthain shrugged and nodded, agreeing belatedly with his wife. 

Childermass’ head was reeling. This was a task that would be highly dangerous and very unpredictable. But what was the alternative? Live out the rest of their lives in Faerie? He had to admit that there was something seductive about that possibility. To stay as an eternal guest in a beautiful fairy brugh with a beautiful man with whom he was building a delicate and promising connection. Even if that man had once been his worst enemy.

But he could not stay. He knew it in his bones. He was needed back in England, to work upon the advancement of English magic. To work to translate The Kings Book. And Starecross School needed him as well. Mr. Segundus and Mr. Honeyfoot relied upon him heavily to help them run and organize the school, and what was more, he was quite fond of them both. Especially of Mr. Segundus, who had become something of a friend after the disappearance of Strange and Norrell. 

Where Henry Lascelles would fit into that world was still left to be seen. It was good to know that his memories would not be returning. That whatever happened, the vicious and duplicitous man he had once been was gone forever. This was even more vital to Childermass now...now that things had grown..complicated. And soft. And warm. God he wished he had never kissed Lascelles and felt the pleasure to be had in his embrace. But also, he knew it could never truly have been avoided. He would have eventually folded under Lascelles sweet, earnest attempts to seduce him, for Childermass was weak. 

“I thank you for your offer of help. We shall gladly take it,” he said out loud, because he could sense his thoughts descending into worry and anguish. He needed to find Lascelles and explain all of this to him. It was a task he was not looking forward to. “I must find my friend and then, will the two of us be able to meet and talk with you in order to prepare for our journey?”

The Prince and Princess agreed, saying that any fairy servant they could find would be able to lead them back to the throne room whenever they were ready. Childermass bowed to them, thanking them again for their hospitality, then went in search of Lascelles. 


	7. Chapter 7

Childermass quickly waylaid a helpful fairy servant who led him back to their quarters, where he predictably also found Henry Lascelles. The man was sitting upon his bed, arms crossed, face like a thundercloud. 

Childermass sat upon the bed across from him and simply waited for Lascelles to speak, which predictably, he did after only a few more moments of pouting. 

“Why did you not tell me?” He asked, glaring at Childermass with dark, angry eyes. That expression held an echo of the old Lascelles, and Childermass did not like the memories it dredged up. 

“I did not tell you because I did not know how,” Childermass responded, for it was the truth. 

“You needed only to open your mouth and speak the words!” Lascelles exclaimed. “You needed only to tell me it was you who took my memories away, and it would have been a simple thing for me to understand.”

“And you would have demanded to know why,” Childermass said. “And I would have had to tell you what I am about to tell you now, and in your weakened and confused state, you would have been very upset. And even now that you are stronger and more aware, I am certain you will still be quite upset.” He sighed and looked down at his hands for a moment, gathering his thoughts about him. 

“As I have said to you already,” he began, thinking to start with the smaller crimes Lascelles had committed and then to introduce larger ones that might be harder to swallow. “You and I were never friends. In fact, you loathed me. You verbally derided me and insulted me at every opportunity. You tried to drive a wedge between my employer and myself. You once stole from me, and when I accused you of stealing, you cut me with your knife. It is why I now bear this scar.” he pointed to the silvery line that ran down his face that Lascelles had touched oh so tenderly just the day before.

“So you have said,” Lascelles responded. Shame and confusion were plainly written across his face, but also a hurt sort of anger. “I cannot now find within me any reason to hate you. Quite the opposite. Why can you not forget the horrid person I once was and simply let us be friends now?” His eyes and voice had taken on a pleading note, but Childermass pressed on.

“There is more sir. More that you will not wish to hear me say,” he warned. When Lascelles only glared at him with dark eyes, he continued. “You were not just cruel with myself. You were also…” he paused momentarily. It was a difficult thing to lay bare a man’s crimes in front of him when he had no memory of having committed them. “You were a double crosser, a schemer, a liar and a thief. And what’s more, you, upon at least one occasion before your enchantment, committed cold blooded murder.”

“That’s preposterous!” Lascelles jumped up and took a step toward Childermass, his face a mask of anger and confusion. “I could not have done all that you’ve said. I am a good person! I am a kind person!” 

“It is the truth,” Childermass replied, feeling pity stab at his chest. “You had an acquaintance of sorts in London, and when he became inconvenient, when he stood in the way of your goals, you shot him with a bullet through the head.”

“Shut your mouth!” Lascelles was clearly incensed. Childermass could see his eyes turn to flinty coals and his cheeks flush. He was gritting his teeth and glaring balefully at Childermass as if he wished to do him harm. This resurgence of old Lascelles made Childermass feel a cold, wrenching sort of pain in his gut. 

“It is the truth.” Childermass replied. “I do not tell you these things to anger you. Or to lie to you. You were who you were. And yes,” he made placating motions with his hands. “You are very much changed now. I do not see very much at all about you that reminds me of how you used to be. Except this anger you are now displaying. The way your face looks now, it is very much as you looked back then.”

Lascelles gasped in shock, and dropped onto the bed again and covered his face with his hands.

“They found your bullet in this man’s skull Mr. Lascelles. It is true that you murdered him, but-”

“Stop!” yelled Lascelles, voice muffled by his interlacing fingers. “You have told me enough.” He raised his head, and Childermass was surprised to see tears shimmering in his eyes. “It is clear that I was the worst sort of person. I can accept that. Only I cannot accept that I would murder someone in cold blood. The very thought makes me feel ill.” He paused then, swallowing thickly, then bolted for the washroom.

Childermass could hear him retching from where he sat upon his bed. He stood up and walked slowly into the washroom, finding Lascelles leaning over the basin, heaving into it, coughing and gagging. 

He waited until the other man was done and had rinsed his mouth from the running tap before he spoke again. “This does not have to be who you are now, Mr. Lascelles. You have been given a chance to be a new person. A different sort of person. Please believe me, I only refrained from telling you because I doubted that you had the strength to hear it. You likely murdered some men during your enchantment as well, but that was beyond your control. And thankfully, also beyond your ability to remember. I did not know that I was casting a spell to remove those parts of you. But now that I  _ do  _ know, I am not certain that I would have made a different decision.” He sighed, feeling a heaviness around his heart that was difficult to understand. “Will you forgive me?”

Lascelles stood in silence for a little while, looking down at his hands, his face stoney and unreadable. Then he looked up at Childermass with haunted eyes. “I do not know,” he said. “I do not know what to think of you. What to think of myself. I do not know your motives. I do not remember you in the slightest. The only part of you I know is of a kind man, a thoughtful man who has helped me to recover from this ordeal that I also do not remember. I only know you as a savior, and now… “ he paused, swallowed, then continued. “As a lover.” 

“I can wait,” Childermass found himself saying. “I can wait and give you time to think. You do not have to come to some sort of perfect understanding at this time. Nor do you need to forgive me for what I’ve done. I beg of you to believe me though sir. If you wish, I can show you ample evidence once we are back in London, that you were the man I claim that you were. Please do not make the mistake of thinking me a liar on that account.”

“I will not,” Lascelles said softly, in a resigned sort of voice. “I do not know what to think, but I believe what it is you are telling me. You do not strike me as someone who is particularly good at lies.”

“For what it is worth,” Childermass said, “Now, neither do you.” 


	8. Chapter 8

They met with the Prince and Princess again and found out all they could about the Lady of the Castle. They were given silvery cloaks that made it hard to look directly at them. Childermass tried his on, and Lascelles reported that while he could see  _ something _ in the space where Childermass stood, it looked like nothing more than a waver of light in the air, a slight difference in color and shape that did not quite match up with the stone walls of the throne room. 

Childermass was not happy with the plan. There were far too many unknowns, and too many opportunities for mistakes to be made. Lascelles, for all that he was now innocent and kind and charming (and frustratingly attractive) was unpredictable. Childermass did not know the man who stood beside him in the throne room. And unfortunately, Lascelles tended to react to strong emotions and uncertain situations with shouting and mild hysteria. He had no idea how the man would behave under potentially deadly situations. 

But what choice did they have? They must free Lascelles from the Lady’s curse and leave Faerie. 

He would bring Lascelles back to Starecross with him. He had decided as much without realizing it completely until this moment. It was the safest place for this new version of Lascelles. Among good men and women who Childermass had grown to trust. They could shield him from the eyes of the law, offer him employment, friendship even. There were some who might be unhappy with this plan, but it was the best alternative to turning Lascelles over to the authorities and having him swinging at the end of a noose or rotting in a moldy cell. And those who had held no love for Lascelles and who would struggle to accept him would hopefully be won over by his new way of behaving soon enough.

After speaking with the royal couple, they returned to their rooms and pack up their meager supplies and don their old clothing. The fine clothes their fairy hosts had given them were not to be worn on a venture such as this. They did not speak, and Childermass sensed a resigned sort of thoughtfulness about Lascelles as they packed. He was clearly deep in thought.

The Princess walked with them out to the entrance of her brugh, where Childermass was pleased to see Brewer waiting, looking well fed and brushed. His horse whinnied and stamped his foot at seeing his master and nosed him in the shoulder as a greeting, and Childermass scratched him behind the ears and slapped his flank. “Yes friend, I am back now,” he said softly to Brewer, apologizing in a small way for leaving him alone in the care of strangers all night. 

He and Lascelles mounted up together and with a final thanks and a bow from the saddle to Princess Ilethia, they set out toward the Lady’s Castle. 

Lascelles, sitting in front of him in the saddle, stayed silent for a long time. Childermass did not feel like speaking either. The two of them had exchanged many difficult words not long ago. Their newfound friendship, their physical intimacy, felt as if it were somehow tainted with suspicion and anger. 

Lascelles had climbed into Childermass’ bed to make love to a man he assumed was his savior, his champion. Having recently learned, (or rather having recently  _ accepted _ ) that Childermass was truly his enemy from before his enchantment, and that he, Lascelles had been a reprehensible person, it had changed Lascelles outlook. He was quieter now. He did not lean flirtatiously back against Childermass, nor did he complain of hunger or make the irritating yet strangely endearing comments he had made often in the last two days. He simply sat in the saddle head forward, riding silently along with Childermass. 

Far too soon, the Lady’s statue rose out of the shadows on the path ahead of them, the female figure, draped in a stone cloak, holding the eye and the heart in her hands. Childermass felt his throat go dry and his heartbeat speed inside his chest. He felt Lascelles tense in front of him as well. He pulled up on the reins to stop Brewer just before the statue. 

“I think we must go on foot from here,” he said. Lascelles nodded and the two of them dismounted and Childermass withdrew the fairy cloaks from his pack so that they could put them on. He also grabbed a short sword (more a long knife) and scabbard the Prince had given him for defending themselves should the Lady catch them in the act, and buckled it around his waist. They had been told that the Lady stayed almost exclusively inside her tower, only leaving it for dire emergencies. And that usually, unless a challenger entered her clearing and fought with her champion, that she slumbered. This would hopefully make their quest a little easier. 

“You can stay here if you wish,” he said to Lascelles. “I could go in myself. It might be safer with only one of us. It would make less noise.” 

Lascelles shook his head. “It is my fate your are attempting to save me from. I wish to be there to lend a hand. And besides, what if we should need one of us as a distraction? Or if the Lady should attack one of us, the other will be needed to help fight her off.” 

“That is brave of you,” Childermass remarked, simply because it was the truth. The old Lascelles would never have agreed to risk his life to help another person, even in the pursuit of freeing himself. 

“Well, I do not feel brave,” remarked Lascelles, looking at Childermass ruefully. “I feel as if my stomach is attempting to crawl it’s way out of me by way of my throat, but I am glad that you think of that as bravery.”

Childermass felt similarly, and thought there was no real point in replying so he only nodded. For a moment they stood there, looking at one another. 

“If we…” Lascelles began, but sensing what he was about to say, Childermass cut him off. 

“We will be fine,” he said, not meaning it at all. Knowing that Lascelles knew he did not mean it either, “we simply need to stick together. You should keep behind me and make as little noise as possible.”

Lascelles rolled his eyes. “Do you mean to tell me that I should not sing sea shanties at the top of my lungs?” His voice held some of the old Lascelles’ arrogance and snide humor, yet despite this (or strangely, because of it?) Childermass found him indescribably charming. He impulsively stepped close, leaned in and kissed Lascelles. It was nothing more than a soft press of lips, but he could not help the treacherous fondness that had flooded his chest at the man’s sarcastic remark. 

Lascelles accepted the kiss and kissed him back with equal tenderness, and for a long moment, Childermass lost himself in the feeling of their lips pressing together. His hand came up to stroke Lascelles’ cheek, his arm wrapped around Lascelles narrow waist, drawing him closer. It felt too natural now, too right. 

As the kiss continued and deepened, Childermass marveled again that this person he’d always hated so could now be someone he would like to be friends with. More than friends. He could picture laughing with Lascelles by the fire in the evening over a drink, or teaching him some small magic spells. Sharing a bed with him at night, warmed by his heat, thrilled by his touches. They were strange, conflicted, seductive thoughts, and he wondered when he would stop feeling this incongruity of fondness and apprehension. Lust and confusion. 

Eventually, Childermass pulled away, turned away, swiftly avoiding Lascelles’ eyes, he set about making sure he had his things in order. He was quite unable at this perilous juncture to face what stirred inside his heart, what was striving to make itself known. 

He was afraid of what lay ahead of them, but the way forward was the way out of fairy. He could not imagine spending the rest of his days in a fairy brugh, no matter how hospitable, and he could not imagine abandoning Lascelles to the fate of the courts, nor to the horrifying grip of the Lady’s enchantments. 

He left Brewer, untied at the entrance to the Lady’s lands. He would know to wander away eventually if Childermass and Lascelles did not return. His horse’s hunger would eventually lead him back to the Princess’ brugh, where he had last been fed, so at the very least, Brewer would be safe. He gave the horse’s nose a companionable pat by way of a possible farewell before he and Lascelles ventured further toward the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart. 

As promised, the Lady was nowhere to be seen. She was likely slumbering in her room at the top of the castle, and, because of the shielding cloaks they wore, and a useful spell to dampen (but not eliminate sound, as they would still need to hear one another) she would not detect their entrance to her lands. At least this is what Childermass fervently hoped. 

The trees through which they walked were still festooned with the gently swinging bodies of the dead. Childermass tried his best not to look at them, but he could not avoid it entirely, and their ghastly, rotting faces and half exposed bones and tattered clothing did nothing to calm the pounding of his heart. He could not easily see Lascelles, nor Lascelles him, and so he’d insisted that they walk hand in hand, so as not to lose sight of one another, a thing Lascelles had readily agreed to. He squeezed the hand in his own and felt Lascelles squeeze back, hoping the other man took that small contact as a way to reassure him. 

Leaves crunched under their feet, a twig snapped here and there, and Childermass winced at every sound they made, convinced that it would somehow wake their sleeping enemy, even at this distance. But the Prince and Princess had reassured them that the Lady would slumber until a new possible champion entered her clearing. And furthermore that she would not detect them beneath the cloaks. Childermass sent up a prayer to his northern King that they were correct. 

As they drew closer to the stream, he realized that they would have to cross it. It looked cold, but at least it was shallow, babbling by over smooth stones. Small, yellow and orange fish, mimicking the fallen leaves that cluttered the ground inside the clearing, swam by like flutters of sunlight. Silently, he turned to Lascelles, who turned to look at him from beneath his hood. It was a strange sight to behold. A man’s face, floating in the midst of a blurred waver in the air, disembodied and pale. Lascelles looked white as a sheet, and his mouth was pressed into a thin, determined line. 

“We must remove our shoes and forge the stream,” Childermass whispered to him, and Lascelles, after a brief pause, nodded, looking resigned. They had to let go of each other’s hands in order to do so, and then, once they were in their stockinged feet (stockings would take too long to remove and replace, and besides, would dry far faster than shoes would). They both stepped into the icy water. Childermass suppressed a gasp of surprise at how bitterly cold it was, and he heard Lascelles yelp softly next to him. They swiftly crossed the stream and stepped up onto the opposite bank before replacing their shoes, which now felt supremely uncomfortable when put on over top of sodden stockings.

On the other side of the stream, the landscape inexplicably changed. For one thing, there were no corpses in any of the trees. For another, the air was sweeter, and birdsong could be heard. It was slightly warmer as well. The Castle stood before them, looming above them, into the deceptively clear blue sky, a sky unlike the constant twilight of the rest of Faerie, dotted with puffs of white cloud. It was really only a single tower, rather than a castle per say. It looked for all the world like a massive rook upon a chess board. The doorway, a small black opening at its base beckoned to them ominously. Childermass squeezed Lascelles hand in his, and both men made sure they were as completely covered by their cloaks as possible, with only their hands and feet visible outside of the shimmering material. 

Together, they approached the dark doorway and saw a set of stairs leading upward. Childermass could sense Lascelles’ fear through the connection of their hands, through the slickness of the sweat between their flesh, and the death grip he had on Childermass’ palm. The stairs that wound up into the darkness were too narrow to admit a pair of men walking side by side. Clearly Lascelles knew that out of necessity, they would have to let go of one another in order to climb. 


	9. Chapter 9

Childermass tugged Lascelles gently toward the entrance before letting go of his hand and putting his foot on the first step. Together, they climbed in the darkness. There were no torches to light the way, and Childermass dared not do a spell to provide any light, and so all that was left was to climb up and up in the blackness together. He knew Lascelles must be terrified, but also that they must press forward, as there were precious few options involved in going back.

The climb, in the dark, toward an uncertain destination, felt interminable. They went up and up as the minutes stretched out. Childermass was sweating beneath the cloak and his legs ached from climbing step after step. All around him was blackness. He hugged the wall to his right, and hoped fervently that Lascelles was doing the same, for he knew not if there were drops to his left. He remembered seeing windows in the face of the tower from the outside, and yet they passed none in their ascent. He could hear Lascelles labored breathing behind him, and his own breath was rushing in and out of his lungs from a combination of fear and physical exertion.

After what felt like hours of climbing, Childermass’ eyes began to detect a lightening of the darkness. A thin golden glow began to illuminate the steps in front of him and he sensed an end to their climb. The light grew and grew, showing walls pressed around them on both sides, meaning there had been no perilous drop to their left, which also boded well for their (possibly headlong) escape. Soon, the stairway opened up into a dimly lit room.

It was a simple room, though large, most likely taking up the entire circumference of the tower. A threadbare rug of indeterminate color lay upon the floor and the walls were bare stone, bleak and gray and rough. There were only two pieces of furniture in the room. One small bed that sat across from the entrance to the stairs, and one small, rickety looking bedside table, upon which stood a solitary lamp. The oil in the lamp smelled stale, but gave off a yellow light, enough to see by. There was a single window that looked out most likely upon the clearing below, if one were to step over to it and look down. From their vantage point of just being about to exit the stairway though, all Childermass could see was a crisp, blue sky.

He stepped very cautiously into the room and felt Lascelles step up beside him and desperately scrabble to take back his hand in his own. Childermass squeezed Lascelles’ hand, as much to comfort himself as to comfort the other man and looked around the room in earnest, while his other hand drew out his short sword. He kept the sword pointed down and at his side, beneath the cloak to keep himself hidden.

He had first erroneously assumed that the bed was empty, but what had at first appeared to be a pile of dirty rags, upon closer inspection was actually a body. The form of a very slender person, lying on it’s side could be discerned beneath the dark rags, and a pile of tangled, snow white hair could be seen in and among the shreds of material and bundles of ratty cloth.

Now that Childermass could see the Lady, or at least partially see her sleeping form, she looked not at all frightening. With her face turned to the wall, her narrow shoulders and small hip jutting up under the pile of cloth that covered her, she seemed frail and elderly and not at all threatening. But the bodies in the clearing below belied his impressions.

He dared to turn his head and seek out Lascelles’ ear beneath the hood of his cloak. He whispered in the softest, lowest voice he could manage,. “I must look for the amulet.” Lascelles nodded and did not move. Childermass cast his eyes about the room, but nothing could be seen. No statues, no books, no glowing orbs. Nothing of any significance. Just a bed, a table, a stale smelling lantern and an ancient figure lying motionless upon a bed.

Lascelles scraped his foot upon the floor, and they both froze. Childermass’ heart was pounding, and he could feel Lascelles’ pulse thundering against the palm of the hand he held.

The Lady stirred, reaching out an arm in a stretch, like an ancient housecat, yellowed fingernails trembling at the ends of long, thin fingers.

Childermass struggled to breath through his fear as they both watched the Lady turn in her sleep. Her bones cracked as she moved, rolling over, for all the world like a grandmother trying to find a more comfortable position upon a lumpy mattress. In doing so, her face came into view.

Childermass had perhaps expected a skeletal mask of terror, or a wolf's snout or a spider’s many eyes, but her face was surprisingly...human. Her face was criss crossed by innumerable fine lines, but her high cheekbones and delicate features spoke of a woman who had once been a great beauty, for all that she was ravaged by time and hatred and the curse of the Castle.

Her nose wrinkled, and then she opened her eyes, and Childermass suppressed a gasp of shock, as they were black, from edge to edge, as if her skull were full of the blackness of a starless sky. Childermass swallowed thickly and heard Lascelles make a soft gasp beside him.

The Lady regarded them for just a moment, though it was impossible to tell if she truly saw them, or if she looked past them, as she had no pupils. Her nose wrinkled again as she smelled the air. Then without warning, her mouth opened and she let out a loud shriek. Her face contorted in a rictus of rage and she began sitting up and swung her feet out of the bed. They were bare and just as boney as her hands, tipped with the same yellowed claws for nails.

Lascelles yelped in fear and clung to Childermass’ arm, his fingers digging painfully into Childermass’ upper bicep. Childermass stepped in front of him protectively. “Keep your head down and your hands hidden,” he turned and hissed into Lascelles’ ear. Both men tilted their faces down at the ground as far as they could while still keeping an eye on the Lady, and this effectively hid their faces from her. They both also stuck their hands within the folds of the cloak, which only left their shoes exposed, but the Lady did not seem to notice. Her eyesight must not have been very good, for she her gaze still seemed to roam about the room, and not to land upon them.

She was sniffing the air and whipping her head about as she rose from the ragged mattress on which she had lain. It was quite clear that she’d sensed an invasion of her room, she must have heard Lascelles’ noise of fear, but just as clearly, she could not see them. Her eyes moved here and there about the room and she spun slowly in a circle, smelling the air, reaching out with hands like claws. Her long, white hair fell to the floor and dragged behind her as she moved.

Hanging upon the wall was a black piece of material that could very well have been a cloak. Childermass wondered if that was the amulet of power the Prince and Princess had told him about, for she had indeed been shrouded in it when she had ghosted toward them the day he’d freed Lascelles. It was difficult to see anything clearly though, for he needed to keep his head canted downard, hidden by the folds of his own cloak’s hood.

Lascelles was still gripping his arm, and Childermass could tell that he was only able to stay silent, to not whimper in fear or cry out in panic through a feat of incredible will.

He flicked his eyes back toward the Lady and saw a glimmer of metal upon the front of her dress. It was a necklace, a gold setting, with a red stone of some kind set in it. It swung from a dark chord around her neck, glinting in the dim light from the lantern and Childermass simply knew in his bones that this must be the thing that allowed her to retain the power of the curse upon the Castle. If he could just snatch that necklace, he and Lascelles would have some chance of escaping with their lives.

The Lady turned abruptly, swiping with her clawed hand, and the sudden movement spooked Lascelles who could not help but gasp with fear. The Lady’s head snapped toward the sound, her eyes roaming the air near where they stood, yet from the position of her body and the expression upon her wrinkled face, Childermass could tell she still did not know where exactly they stood. Lascelles had given her a clue as to their location, and so to move now, to try and sidle away from her would expose them further as their shoes moved against the floor, or as the air in the room shifted. Childermass stayed stock still and prayed that Lascelles would do the same. If they could lure the Lady close enough, he could snatch the necklace from around her neck and divest her of her power.

She sidled closer, and then she opened a mouth full of black and rotting teeth and spoke. “I can smell you, Englishmen,” she said, her voice like the slither of snake scales against rock. “I can smell your fear, and your filthy skin and your burning plants that you breath in and out like dragons’ smoke.”

Childermass swallowed as silently as he could manage and stayed stock still. The Lady stepped closer, having ascertained their general direction, she was now moving slowly toward them, her black eyes wide and staring, She was waiting for any sign, movement, breath they would utter to betray themselves.

Childermass was at a loss for what to do. If he did a spell, his hand motions or words (even a whisper) would be heard by her and she’d attack them, or cast some curse or enchantment of her own. If he made a movement, she would be on them as well. But if they continued to stand there they would be caught for certain. She was moving closer with every second that passed, smelling the air like some sort of wild animal.

He knew of a quick and mostly soundless spell to call forth a flash of light. It was called “Bottled Lightning” and was a spell to confuse robbers or briggands when one is alone in a city and senses that one is in danger. He’d used it once before, many years ago, when facing a group of angry townspeople in a pub who’d accused him of theft, even though the real thief had disappeared into the night hours earlier. It worked well as a way to distract and blind one’s enemies so that one could escape or attack them while having the upper hand, and it had allowed Childermass to duck out of a back door and flee.

The problem with using this spell was that he would have to speak and move somewhat, and Lascelles would not know to expect it, and so he might very well blind or confuse his companion. He had to try though. He would cast the spell, then in the aftermath, reach for the Lady’s amulet and pull it from her neck. In doing so, hopefully she would be at too great a disadvantage, with her magic gone or greatly decreased, and they might be able to wound or kill her, before she managed to harm either one of them, by violence or enchantment.

He slowly turned his head to the vicinity of where he knew Lascelles’ ear to be, while keeping one eye trained on the Lady’s advancing form from under the cover of the cloak’s hood.

“Cover your eyes!” he whispered as loudly as he dared. The Lady did indeed hear him, but luckily, Lascelles did also, and was quick to comply. Childermass saw the air ripple next to him as Lascelles reached up to cover his eyes with his arm, and he let the spell fly.

He mumbled two words and flung out his hand, looking away as he did so, and an orb of bright light burst forth and flew into the Lady’s face. She screeched and reeled back in alarm, and Childermass, took immediate advantage of her momentary shock, and lunged forward. He quickly grabbed at the amulet. His fingers closed around it, and he pulled, sharp and hard. It came away, the cord breaking with a snap, and the Lady screamed again, it was like a diving hawk or a dying deer, a horrid noise that made his skin crawl. He dared to look up and saw the Lady reeling about the room, her hands covering her eyes and screaming as she stumbled blindly here and there. Apparently, her eyes, black and wet, were highly sensitive, for she was clearly in pain and unable to see.

Childermass knew he must finish her. He must kill her. It was that or risk yet another poor man being enchanted to a life of misery and murder and wasting away in the horrid copse of swinging bodies at the bottom of the castle tower. He raised his fairy short sword and advanced on the old woman. He heard Lascelles call out his name as he stepped toward the still confused Lady, felt Lascelles clutch at Childermass’ sleeve to try and hold him back, but he ignored it. He raised his sword and prepared to plunge it into the Lady’s chest.

At the last second, she flung out her hand and said a few words in a rasping voice, and the amulet, which Childermass had been holding grew hot, as a burning coal. He yelped and dropped it in pained surprise, his attack aborted. In his surprise, he dropped the sword and it clattered to the floor.

“Did you think you could steal my power by taking my necklace?!” She yelled. “I need not wear it to wield its power!” With that, she snapped her fingers and the sword that was once lying upon the floor now appeared in her hand. She smiled at his shocked expression and raised the sword to strike at him.

Childermass froze and time slowed as he watched the sword in the Lady’s hands reach the top of its arc and descend toward his chest. He raised up a hand to try and defend himself, and then suddenly, a shimmer in the air, all he could see of Lascelles, who was still shrouded in his cloak, stepped between him and the Lady. Childermass had only a split second to make a sound of dismay and horror before the Lady plunged the knife into Lascelles’ chest.

Lascelles crumpled and fell in a heap. Childermass, mind reeling with shock and grief, with next to no time to think, did the lightning spell once more and threw a blast of bright light again into the Lady’s face. She shrieked and dropped the sword, and it clattered once more to the floor.  
Childermass grabbed it, found the amulet, placing it upon the ground, and sinking to his knees before it, he brought the heel of the sword handle down upon the red stone at its center with all his might. It shattered beneath the blow.

He heard the Lady scream, even louder this time, another shriek, like a dying animal being ripped apart by the claws of a vicious predator, and watched in horror as she dissolved before his eyes. Her hair came apart and floated away into the air of the room like fading spider webs. Her clothing became flutters of ragged, filthy fabric, like a thousand moths and dispersed in a cloud. Her body too, her old limbs and gray skin and the rictus of rage painted across her face became insubstantial and faded into the air like so much dust and cobwebs. Soon, the only thing left of her was the echo of her dying screams.

Childermass crawled to Lascelles, who lay only a short distance from him. The cloak and its hood had fallen open revealing the man beneath, lying motionless upon the floor. Lascelles’ skin was snow white, and a great red rose bloom of blood was spreading out, soaking the fabric of his shirt and waistcoat where the lady had stabbed him. His eyes were closed, and for a moment, Childermass feared that he was dead. But then, he noticed an imperceptible up and down movement of Lascelles chest. He still breathed.

Childermass gently lifted Lascelles’ head from the cold stone flags of the floor and cradled it in his hands. “Henry,” he said, his voice thick and choked with grief. “Henry. Henry.” He seemed not to be able to say anything else.

Lascelles opened his eyes, dark in the dim light of the Lady’s lantern and gazed up at him. His face was bloodless. “Did you kill her?” he asked, his voice a small, ragged whisper.

“Yes,” Childermass said through a swell of tears that fell to splash against Lascelles’ ghostly white cheeks. “Yes. She is gone. I killed her.”

“Good,” replied Lascelles. “I think I will soon be going myself.”

“Don’t say that!” Childermass cried, desperate with denial. “We shall close your wound with magic. I know a spell. Give me but a moment to think. Damn it! I just need to think!” as he spoke he stroked his thumbs across Lascelles cheeks, wiping away the wetness of his own tears, and gently brushing his copper hair away from his pale brow. Fear and grief were mixing in a torrent inside his heart and he could not concentrate. His mind desperately tried to grasp for the words to Pale's Restoration, but all he could see was copper and white and red and Lascelles dark eyes looking up at him with such fondness.

“No time to think of magic,” Lascelles said, his voice growing fainter. “I love you John. I think I loved you from the very moment I first saw you. My protector." He forced a wan smile that faded into a grimace of pain.

“No!” Childermass felt his chest constrict and his throat close up with fear and grief. It was too soon. They had not had enough time. They needed time. To grow to know each other better. To see what sort of man Lascelles could really be. More time for talking, and laughing, and they had not kissed nearly enough. “Henry, you can’t go,” he sobbed, Lascelles’ white face and flame coloured hair blurring with the tears that would not stop coming to his eyes. “I can save you! I can do it! I know I can! Henry!”

“Such a silly name,” Lascelles said and let out a weak little chuckle. “But I love the way it sounds when you say it.” And then his eyes lost their focus and Childermass felt the life leave him.


	10. Chapter 10

Childermass pulled Lascelles’ limp body into his arms and sobbed. He kissed Lascelles’ still warm forehead and stroked his hair and cried and cried. He was not certain how long he sat there, weeping, holding his dead adversary, his lost love in his arms, but eventually, his throat was sore from sobbing, and his knees ached from kneeling on the cold stone floor of the Lady’s room. 

He could not leave Lascelles here, and so he wrapped the man in the fairy cloak and carried his body down the stairs. It was a long and difficult descent, what with Lascelles’ added weight and the weight of his own grief, but he could not let Lascelles stay here in the castle, nor on fairy lands. 

Once he had reached the stream, he crossed it in his shoes, not caring for the coldness of the water, seeping in to flood his stockinged feet. He reached Brewer, and with some difficulty, and was able to lay Lascelles’ body across his back. Then he led Brewer out of the Lady’s lands and back onto the fairy road. 

The path back to England was there, clear as day, and Childermass breathed a sigh of relief. He had partly feared that killing the Lady would not break the enchantment she’d put upon the fairy wood and that he would be trapped here forever, and without Lascelles. 

The road though, led unerringly back to where he had entered Faerie, only a few days ago. He could see the remnants of his campfire a few yards from the entrance, and the road back to Starecross from Doncaster, plain and ordinary and quite English, stretching in either direction. 

He used the fairy short sword to help him dig a shallow grave for Lascelles’ body and buried the man in a small copse of trees, by some holly bushes, far enough from the road to not be easily noticed by travelers. Afterwards, he stood above the grave, seeming unable to leave. His eyes were sore from crying and his heart was a hollow ache inside his chest. 

He felt a sudden flash of anger at the man he had just buried. How dare Lascelles hurt him so much in so many different ways? It was almost as if by finding his redemption and giving his life to save Childermass, he had cut Childermass a second time, only with grief and loss, rather than with the sharp, sweet smelling edge of a paring knife. 

Childermass took a long, shuddering breath, scrubbed angrily at his eyes and nose and then went to go mount Brewer to ride back home to Starecross. Yes, home. He suddenly missed Starecross Hall with every fiber of his being. He longed to be back inside its now familiar walls, to study magic, to help the students, to talk with Segundus and Honeyfoot and be a force for the advancement of English magic. He had had enough of fairy curses and blood and betrayal and redemption. 

The ride back felt far longer than the ride out. He kept having to push Lascelles’ face from his mind. Memories of their night spent in each other’s arms, of Lascelles’ funny grin and his imperiousness and how it mixed with his innocent charm. He thought of Lascelles’ soft kisses, and his warm arms, and how he confessed his love for Childermass, so simply at the end, and how Childermass had not had the courage to do the same until it was too late. The images kept coming over and over, and Childermass may have cried again, but at this point, he’d lost track, for he ached all over. Pain and discomfort and grief were all he knew until Brewer’s hooves clunked against the packhorse bridge and he knew they were finally home.

Davey came running out to greet him, looked up at him and asked if he were alright, and Childermass could only nod numbly and dismount. Upon doing so, he stumbled and almost fell, would have fallen if Davey had not caught him by the arm. He did not realize how weak he was. He had not eaten anything, and he was sore and exhausted from grief and travel and the horrible events of the last day. Davey, good, solid Davey, took Brewer’s reins and pushed Childermass toward the house. “You go in and get yourself sorted sir,” he said gently. “I’ll take care of Brewer.” 

Childermass nodded his thanks and stumbled toward the kitchen door of Starecross Hall in a haze. He stepped inside and saw Honeyfoot and Mr. Segundus at the kitchen table, midway through having their tea. Both men’s eyes grew large as dinner plates upon seeing him. 

“Mr. Childermass!” exclaimed Segundus, leaping to his feet and rushing over to him. “You look a fright sir! Won’t you come and sit? Are you well? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Childermass let himself be fretted over and was pushed into a chair and handed a hot cup of tea. Honeyfoot went to the kitchens to request that a plate of food be brought out and Segundus sat opposite him and watched him with concern clear in his eyes. 

“I am well,” Childermass responded, lying to ease Segundus’ mind, for he knew his new friend to be prone to worry. He looked down and saw the state of his hands, blackened by dirt and probably with Lascelles’ dried blood, and he did not know the state of his face, but he knew he must look horrible indeed. “I shall wash my hands and face at the pump and be back in a moment,” he said. 

After he had done so, he hung his coat and hat on hooks by the door. He combed his hair back with his fingers, tying it into a messy bundle at the nape of his neck. It was only then that he felt better prepared to be seen by Starecross’ headmaster and teacher. He reentered the kitchen to find a hot bowl of chicken stew and a large piece of buttered bread had been placed at the table for him. He sat down and ate gratefully, realizing that he was ravenous. It was as if he had been lost in a strange dream for days. An unreal land with a magical cast of characters, and now that he had reentered the real world, where things like plain but hearty chicken stew and cups of good, English tea existed, his recent adventure seemed even more dreamlike.

As he ate, he told Honeyfoot and Segundus a very truncated version of what had happened. He told them that he had mistakenly erased Lascelles’ memories with the ancient fairy spell he’d found in Norrell’s library. He told them that they’d sought help from the fairy prince and princess and how he and Lascelles had fought the Lady of the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart and had defeated her. He also told them of Lascelles’ demise, how he’d given his life to save Childermass, and where he was buried. He of course did not mention the depth of their newfound relationship, for such a thing would not have been tolerated or understood. 

He had to work quite hard not to become emotional during the tale, but he had had many years of practice with covering over his true feelings with a stoney face and a offhand manner, and so they did not suspect how deeply wounded he was beneath the surface.

After he’d eaten, he excused himself to his room to wash up and get some rest. Vinculus was nowhere to be seen, was probably off drinking too much beer or flirting with the chambermaids somewhere, and this was fine with Childermass. He was in no mood for the raggedy man’s cryptic statements and snide remarks. He pulled on his nightdress and crawled under the covers of his bed and was at once unconscious.

He dreamed of Lascelles’ pale face and blood soaked shirt and of digging in the earth, digging and digging, trying to dig him up, convinced that he still lived and breathed and was trapped inside his shallow grave. He awoke yelling, clawing the covers back and away from his sweat dampened skin. It was dark in the room, likely the middle of the night, and so after he calmed his breathing, he was able, with some tossing and turning, to fall back asleep again. This time, blessedly, his dreams were vague and the memories of them drifted away shortly after he awoke with the dawn. 

It was early morning, and so he did his toilet and dressed himself in his new fairy clothing. They were too fine for everyday wear, but his usual clothes were caked with dirt and dried blood and fear sweat. He could not wear them until they had been washed. 

He found Mr. Segundus, bent over a book in the library. The dark haired man looked up when Childermass entered and his face broke into a sunny smile. “Mr. Childermass! Good morning!” he chirped. It struck Childermass how very kind Segundus was. How he had always simply accepted the hardships of his life with steadfast resolve. Even the ones visited upon him by Childermass himself. 

“Good morning Mr. Segundus,” he replied. “What is it you are reading?” 

Segundus looked down at the cover of the book, as if he hadn’t expected to be asked this question and had forgotten what he was reading. “Ah, It is a history of the known cases brought before the Cinque Dragownes, in Latin. It was one of the books the York Society had among their possessions that they managed to keep. It was given to me by Mr. Honeyfoot a few years ago.” 

“That sounds quite interesting,” Childermass remarked. “Perhaps I may read it when you are finished? I speak a fair amount of Latin, and I assume you would answer any questions I had about the narrative...” 

“Oh yes! Of course,” Segundus’ smile grew just a little bit brighter, and Childermass, despite his dour mood, felt himself respond with a small smile of his own. 

“May I sit with you a little while?” he asked. He did not wish to be by himself, and Segundus was a pleasant, quiet sort of person who would not drain him with questions and comments as Honeyfoot might have. 

“Certainly.” Segundus closed his book and placed it aside, giving Childermass his full attention.

“You may continue to read if you wish,” Childermass said, feeling his cheeks heating with an embarrassed flush. “I did not mean that you had to entertain me with conversation. I only do not wish to be alone at this moment.”

Segundus’ smile faltered just a little bit, but he nodded and picked the book up again. Was Childermas imagining it? Or did it seem that Segundus was disappointed to abstain from conversation with him? Regardless, Childermass sat opposite the slight headmaster and cast his eyes out the window at the gardens of Starecross Hall. 

They sat that way for some time, in companionable silence. It did indeed help to have Segundus’ presence there. Childermass was surprised at how much coming to Starecross Hall, taking up residence there now and then had made him crave the company of others. His time spent in Norrell’s employ had not been lonely exactly, for he’d had Norrell’s constant companionship, as well as that of the other servants. But things were different here. Here at Starecross, they largely abandoned the rigorous separation of class and financial status and bent their energies instead toward the learning of and instruction of magic. Here, Childermass felt welcomed, needed, appreciated, whereas while he arguably did far more for Mr. Norrell, he’d always felt taken for granted and reminded of his place as a servant. 

Eventually, once Childermass thought he had dwelled for long enough with his melancholy memories, he moved his gaze from the window to Mr. Segundus. The man sat with his head bent, dark hair shot through with strands of silver at the temples. His eyes tracked the words upon the page, his lips moving just a little bit as he read. His fingers, well formed and pale and somewhat delicate, gripped the edge of the page he was about to turn. 

He sensed Childermass’ eyes upon him and looked up. Childermass swiftly looked away. 

“It strikes me sir,” said Segundus, his voice soft and careful, clearly hesitating to say what he wished, “that you have a heaviness upon your heart today. I would not presume to know why it is there, but I can sense it, in the quality of your silence.” He paused then, and Childermass dared to look at him once more. His eyes met Segundus’ and saw kindness and empathy there. “If there is anything you wish to disclose to me, or to express,” Segundus continued haltingly. “if it… if it will help to ease that heaviness, I hope you know that you can do so,” he paused again. “Without fear of judgment or prejudice,” he finished. 

Childermass was struck by the open, gentle quality of Segundus’ words. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it. He would likely not tell Segundus what had transpired between him and Lascelles in the fairy wood. But having the other man make the offer eased the ache inside his chest somewhat. He gave Segundus a slow, one sided smile. “You’ve been far too kind to me, despite all that I’ve done,” he said. 

“All of that is behind us now,” Segundus said, then he closed his book and rose, clasping it in front of his chest like a small shield. “I would hope that you now consider me a friend Mr. Childermass. And as friends do, I offer you an ear should you feel the need to speak your mind.” And with that, he wished Childermasss a good day and left the library.

Childermass watched him go, feeling a small pool of warmth unfolding inside his chest. Mr. Segundus was a good man. A far better man than Childermass. 

He turned back to the window and watched as a light rain began to fall. It was not until some minutes later that he noticed that the wetness he saw out the window was also echoed in the tears that silently coursed down his cheeks. 


End file.
